


Power Play

by azriona



Series: Power Play [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post Reichenbach, mycroft needs lessons in flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg play games with each other.  The only question is whether or not they’re playing the same game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brit-picked by wendymr and betaed by earlgreytea68, both of whom kicked me incessantly when I stupidly thought this story was only two chapters long. This is not meant to be a sequel to British Government, which I still claim up, down, and sideways to _not_ be Mystrade, but if you’d like to read it as such, by all means, do. (There's one scene that directly corresponds with the epilogue in that story, but if you haven't read British Government, you'll be all right.)
> 
> And yes, the rating is accurate - it'll get explicit in later chapters, I promise!

Greg Lestrade stopped looking for the black cars on the street about a month after Sherlock jumped. There wasn't any point, after all; Mycroft Holmes was hardly going to order him to do anything anymore. If Sherlock was dead, there wasn’t much Mycroft could ask him to do, other than cut the grass over his grave. 

When the black car pulled up to the kerb, Lestrade didn't pay any attention. 

When his mobile rang in his pocket, he absently answered it, as if it were just another call. 

"Lestrade." 

"Please get into the car, Detective Inspector." 

Lestrade stopped dead on the pavement. He moved the phone away from his ear, only now looking at the Caller ID, and said the name like it was a curse. "Mycroft Holmes." 

"Indeed." 

"What do you want?" 

"For you to get into the car, of course." 

Lestrade swore, this time legitimately. And then climbed in. 

Mycroft looked exactly the same. Bespoke dark grey suit, hair neatly combed, calm and vaguely aloof expression on his placid face. Comfortable and cool and instantly annoying. Lestrade, by contrast, felt hot and sticky and his shirt stuck to his back under his suit jacket, required by the Yard but completely ridiculous for July in London. Just looking at Mycroft made Lestrade feel grubby. 

"Detective Inspector," said Mycroft by way of greeting. "So kind of you to join me." 

Lestrade was tempted to tell the man to stuff it, but remembered just in time that Mycroft was technically in mourning, even if he didn't look it. His surge of anger dissipated as quickly as it had risen. 

"Nothing personal. It’s air-conditioned in here.” 

“So it is,” said Mycroft smoothly, and then fell silent. 

Lestrade sighed. “I didn’t get a chance to give you my condolences for Sherlock.” 

Mycroft's jaw tightened. Just a little. Lestrade wasn't sure why he noticed. 

“You were only at the funeral a short time,” Mycroft said finally. 

“Didn’t feel right,” said Lestrade. “Being there, what with…well, everything. My part in it.” 

"You did what you could, Detective Inspector. I do not hold you at fault." 

"Well, that makes one of us," said Lestrade briefly. 

Mycroft's eyebrows went up; _that_ , Lestrade definitely noticed, and had no doubt that Mycroft intended him to do so. "I take it you do?" 

“Don’t tell me you picked me up solely to ensure I’m not blaming myself.” 

“I was rather hoping you could tell me how John Watson is coping. He won’t answer my calls.” 

“Amazing,” said Lestrade dryly. He glanced at Mycroft. “I don't believe the media reports, you know. I’ve seen what rubbish they write on the best of days, and I know they can’t be trusted on the worst. And Sherlock, everything he did, was as real as I am." 

Mycroft’s gaze was soft and piercing all at once. Lestrade stared out the window, unable to meet his eyes. "Have a drink with me." 

Lestrade blinked. "Excuse me?" 

"Drinks. Tonight. You don't have a previous engagement, do you?" 

"I...ah..." Lestrade rubbed his ears to see if they were still working. "Are you asking me out?" 

"Yes," said Mycroft. He looked exactly the same as he had when Lestrade had entered the car; quiet, calm, self-assured. Any impression of mourning or regret from him was clearly a figment of Lestrade's imagination. 

Lestrade closed his eyes, and opened them. Mycroft stubbornly refused to turn into a random alcohol-based nightmare, however. 

"My club is just around the corner, quite discreet, and there's a comfortable corner where we can talk." 

"No," said Lestrade. 

"Another time," said Mycroft graciously. 

"Doubtful," said Lestrade. "Can you stop the car now?" 

The car rolled to a halt without so much as a move or word from Mycroft, and Lestrade stepped back out onto the pavement. He was still wondering what the hell had just happened when the car pulled away, and walked back home in a fog. 

* 

To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Apology 

I fear my abruptness took you by surprise last week. May I make it up to you by offering you dinner this evening? I know you have no other engagements.  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Apology 

There are so many things wrong with that email, I don't know where to begin. How can anyone have an unrecognizable email address? How do you know I don’t have things to do tonight? Where was the apology in that email?  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Apology 

You did not answer the question.  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

Good observation. You didn’t answer mine.  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

My email address is unrecognizable because it does not conform to the standard. Rest assured that as long as you use the reply function, a response will always reach me. Should you accidentally delete my email, you will find an entry for me in your email system’s Address Book. To pre-empt the next question: yes, I have access to your Address Book. I also have access to your Calendar, which is how I know you are available this evening.  
  
  


I would still like to know how John Watson is faring.  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

Not everyone enters everything into their computer calendar, you know.  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

Your ex-wife’s birthday is the 7th of March, your parents’ anniversary is the 11th of June, you had a dental appointment four days ago, you met with friends to see a movie on the 9th, and your dry cleaning is due for collection tomorrow.  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

You’re bloody frightening, you are.  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

I can collect you at seven.  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Apology 

NO.  
  
  


* 

It was raining, Lestrade's umbrella was being difficult, the soles of his shoes had cracked which let in the water that pooled on the pavement, there was a man missing from his team, Donovan was determined to pretend she hadn’t asked for a transfer, and there was a black car waiting for him on the kerb. 

Lestrade swore, and got inside. 

"Surely you could have had a car from the Met take you home in this weather," said Mycroft. 

"I'd rather not abuse the privilege," snapped Lestrade. He was tempted to wring out his soaked coat, but a glance at Mycroft's perfectly dry and perfectly fitted suit dissuaded him. 

"Saving up for a rainy day?" 

Lestrade settled for shaking the raindrops off his useless umbrella. It was nearly as satisfying. 

“You’re angry with me,” said Mycroft. 

“No,” said Lestrade angrily, and gave his umbrella another shake. "Yes. I don't know. Maybe I'm just angry." 

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You are angry with my brother." 

"Aren't you?" 

"Continuously, and never." 

Lestrade had a sister. The answer made complete sense, and he let his head fall back on the headrest. "He should have asked for help." 

"You know as well as I do that Sherlock was never one to _ask_ for help," said Mycroft. 

"No, that was _your_ job, to ask it for him." 

"Indeed. If you should be angry with anyone, Detective Inspector, you should be angry with me." 

Lestrade snorted. "What, you're omniscient, now? How were you supposed to know that your brother was going to jump—" Lestrade cut the rest of his words off. "I'm sorry." 

"It was the only logical outcome," said Mycroft. 

"No, it really wasn't," said Lestrade. 

“Have you seen John Watson recently?” 

“No.” 

“He still refuses to answer my calls.” 

“That’s his prerogative.” 

“Indeed, but I am concerned for him.” 

“Oh, _now_ you’re concerned about someone else’s welfare,” snapped Lestrade, and gave a violent shiver as the air conditioning penetrated the layers of wet clothes. 

"You'll catch cold wearing those wet clothes," said Mycroft. "I live around the corner. I can light a fire and let you warm up while your clothes dry. Perhaps a nightcap?" 

Lestrade stared at him. 

Mycroft didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest. 

"I think I'll get out of the car now," said Lestrade. 

There was a thunderclap from the sky overhead, and the rain intensified. Lestrade could barely see the other cars on the road. 

"You won't reconsider?" asked Mycroft smoothly, and Lestrade half wondered if the man could control the weather. 

"Fairly certain, yeah," said Lestrade. 

The car rolled to a stop. Lestrade paused before getting out. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said, without looking at Mycroft. “What Sherlock did. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Lestrade slammed the door before the man could respond. 

It was only as the car pulled away that Lestrade realized he’d left his umbrella behind, and thought about drowning himself in the rain. 

* 

Drinks, dinner, a night in by the fire. 

Mycroft was getting bolder, and still wasn't taking the hint. 

Oh, hell. 

* 

Lestrade got into work at 8am. He hung his coat up, started his laptop, and went to find the coffee. 

By the time he returned, there were two airline tickets waiting on his desk that had not been there ten minutes previously. 

Confirmation Code 765XR7U  
Passenger (1): Gregory Lestrade  
Passenger (2): Mycroft Holmes  
British Airways Flight 734  
Departs LHR  
Arrives CDG  
First Class  
Round-trip, return same day 

Beneath the airline tickets was another envelope, this one containing two tickets for box seats to a performance of _Aida_ at the Paris Opera. 

Lestrade had never flown first class. He'd been bumped up to business once, years before, had seen the plush seats that reclined all the way down, the individual entertainment consoles, and had wondered who paid for such luxury. 

And on a short flight to _Paris_ , no less. 

When the phone rang, Lestrade had no doubt who it was calling. 

"I assume you have found the tickets," said Mycroft Holmes. 

"I hope they're refundable." 

"I have great amounts of confidence in my ability to persuade you to accompany me." 

“You could always ask John Watson,” said Lestrade. “Then you could stop pestering me about him.” 

“Ah,” said Mycroft, and sounded abashed. Lestrade wondered if he was blushing. “I did not realize you – yes. Of course. I will refrain from using you as my intermediary for John – but I would much rather have _you_ accompany me to Paris.” 

Lestrade had no idea what to say to that. 

“Detective Inspector?” 

“You want me to go to Paris with you.” Lestrade wondered when his voice had gotten so high. 

“Just for the day, of course. I wouldn't want to put you in an...uncomfortable situation." 

"I'm sorry, what about this situation isn't uncomfortable? You're asking me out for a bloody weekend." 

"Hardly. We'd return in the evening, your reputation intact." 

"You're honestly worried about my reputation? You already asked me out for drinks, dinner, and a night by your fireplace." 

"For warmth only. I have no intention of ravishing you at this stage in our relationship; I am a traditionalist at heart, Detective Inspector." 

Strangely, this did not make Lestrade feel much better. In fact, he felt almost dizzy. 

"Gregory. Greg." Lestrade had no idea what came over him, but he could hear Mycroft smile over the phone. 

"Greg," said Mycroft, and something in Lestrade's stomach flipped. “Are you still angry with me?” 

“Are you still angry with yourself?” 

There was a pause, and Lestrade could hear Mycroft thinking. “I’m too close to the subject. You’ll have to tell me yourself.” 

“Same here, then.” 

"I trust I will see you on the flight tomorrow?" 

For one brief, lovely, first-class-champagne-opera-filled infinitesimal minute…Lestrade was tempted to say yes. 

"No," said the Detective Inspector. Lestrade. Gregory. Greg. He hung up the phone and stared at the tickets before letting his forehead hit his desk. 

Bloody hell. 

* 

Drinks, dinner, a night by the fire, and a day-trip to see the bloody Paris opera. 

_Traditional_! 

Lestrade remembered this dance. He had a feeling he knew what came next. 

* 

The knock at the door was polite, sharp, and entirely too early on a Sunday morning to be anyone but Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade wasn't sure how he knew it was Mycroft Holmes, based purely on the knock, but he wasn't surprised when he opened the door to find the man standing there. 

What did surprise him was the suit bag that Mycroft carried. He stared at it, startled enough that Mycroft had ample opportunity to walk straight into the flat without so much as a blink. 

"You're dressing me now?" asked Lestrade, still holding his coffee mug. 

"I doubt you have anything suitable for luncheon," said Mycroft, peering at the room with a look of mild distaste. "Really, Greg, you should have been showered by this time. We'll be late." 

"Late?" 

"I'll put this in your wardrobe," said Mycroft, and headed back for the bedroom. 

Lestrade tried to make a leap to stop him, realized he was still clinging to the open door, slammed it shut, had to think about letting go of the doorknob, and barely missed grabbing hold of Mycroft's coattails before the man slipped into the bedroom. 

"Sodding hell, Mycroft!" he yelled. 

Mycroft's sigh was audible. "Honestly, Gregory," he said, disappointment dripping. "I'll send housekeeping in the morning." 

Lestrade groaned. "You will _not_." 

"Shower," said Mycroft, returning to the main room. 

"Am I allowed to know where you think you're taking me?" 

Mycroft looked surprised. "To Mummy, of course. It's high time you met her, and she's quite looking forward to meeting you. We'll need to be on the road soon, it's a bit of a drive to the estate, and Mummy doesn't suffer unpunctuality easily. Close your mouth, Greg. It's rather tempting." 

Lestrade's mouth snapped shut, but not for long. "You want me to meet your mother." 

"Of course," said Mycroft. 

"Were you going to _ask_?" 

"Would you have agreed?" 

"No!" 

"Then why would I ask?" 

"Because that's what you _do_. You ask, I refuse, it's how this works!" 

Mycroft sighed. "Gregory. Please do shower, and dress in the clothes I brought, so that I can take you home to meet Mummy." 

"No!" 

Mycroft shook his head. "Why must you be so difficult?" 

"I'm not being difficult, I'm being rational. There is no reason for me to meet your mother." 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. 

“Know what?” asked Lestrade finally. “I think I do know. I _am_ still angry with you. Want to know why? Because you never actually turn up without wanting something from me.” 

“That’s what a relationship is,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade thought he knew him well enough to recognize the thin layer of surprise and confusion under the mask. “People always want something.” 

“No,” said Lestrade. “First, this isn’t a relationship. Second, that’s not what a relationship is about.” 

“Of course it is,” said Mycroft. 

“And third,” said Lestrade, wondering which point Mycroft was refuting, but too much on a roll to bother stopping, “people don’t _always_ want something. Because there isn’t _anything_ I want from you.” 

There was a brief moment where Lestrade thought he saw Mycroft’s face slide from calm aloofness, to stark shock and disappointment. He turned his back in order to not continue seeing the odd expression on Mycroft’s face. For some reason, it made him feel worse than he already did. 

Lestrade left Mycroft in the main room and went into his bedroom. Probably not the wisest of moves – Mycroft wasn’t above putting in cameras or microphones, but then, Lestrade had no doubt that if he’d wanted, those things would have been there long since. 

He didn't want to look at the clothes inside the suit bag, but he couldn't help it. Not a suit, but a very nice pair of trousers, a blue shirt that was so soft and smooth it felt sinful, and a brown jacket that wasn't the least bit tweedy. Very respectable, reasonable, and Lestrade had no doubt that they'd fit him perfectly. He almost wanted to try them on, and half wondered what sort of woman actually bore and raised the Holmes brothers. It might have explained a few things, particularly recent events. 

Curiosity battled reason for a tense minute. 

Lestrade zipped the bag up again, and carried it back into the main room, fully intending to drop it on Mycroft's head. 

Only Mycroft wasn't there to receive it. 

* 

There was plenty about the situation that would appall Sherlock, had he been there to appreciate it. The idea that his brother was pursuing his Detective Inspector (because Lestrade had no doubt that Sherlock thought him his personal property, in a manner of speaking), that would certainly horrify Sherlock. 

That Lestrade actually felt _guilty_ about the entire Luncheon-with-Mummy debacle – well, that would have probably rendered Sherlock speechless, or even driven him to do something drastic. Well, _more_ drastic. Not that it could _get_ much more drastic, but Lestrade had confidence in Sherlock’s ability to find a way. 

Not that Lestrade felt guilty. Of course not. Who honestly believed that if he showed up on a doorstep, bearing gifts of expensive clothing and a hired car with tinted windows, that the object of his affection would simply fall into line and go home to meet Mummy? 

Mycroft Holmes, of course. 

(Lestrade decided to ignore the bit about “object of affection”. There was no affection between the objects. He was certainly not an object, nor was he being objectified, and that was all there was to say on that matter.) 

(And yes, it was guilt about Mummy. Of course it was guilt about Mummy, who according to Mycroft had been looking forward to meeting him. There was not one shred of guilt about the lie he’d told to Mycroft about not wanting anything. Lestrade wanted plenty from Mycroft. To stop bothering him, for starters.) 

Drinks. Dinner. An evening by the fireplace. A day trip to Paris, and meeting the family. 

Sodding _hell_. 

* 

To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: This is what an apology actually looks like. 

I’m sorry for what I said the other day. 

I’m also sorry if I disappointed your mother. 

* 

It was a week after he sent the email into the ether when Lestrade came home and found Mycroft Holmes sitting on his sofa. 

Lestrade stood in the doorway and stared at Mycroft, and then continued his evening routine as if the man was not actually sitting there. Keys on the table by the door, umbrella thrown in the corner, latch the locks, into the kitchen for a glass of water. 

No, scratch that. _Beer_. 

Mycroft was still sitting on his sofa when Lestrade came back out, holding onto the bottle. 

"Greg," said Mycroft pleasantly, and raised his eyebrow at the bottle of beer. 

“Normal people respond to emails,” said Lestrade. He hoped his bitterness at having been left hanging for a week didn’t show too much. 

“Precisely why I am here.” 

“Of course you are,” sighed Lestrade. In a normal world, a world in which Mycroft Holmes was not found on his sofa when he came home from work, he would have kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table. Somehow, he doubted this would go over well with Mycroft Holmes. “So really. Why are you here? My expert opinion on how John Watson is coping? The scores from the latest football matches? Tickets to see the Russian Ballet in Moscow? Tell me, I’m dying of curiosity here.” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. Lestrade was getting tired of that eyebrow. "Nothing." 

Lestrade snorted, and took a pull of beer. And since when did he care what Mycroft Holmes thought about what he did in his own home? 

"You always want something." 

"So you said last week. I am merely proving you wrong." 

Lestrade put his feet up on the coffee table, just to see what Mycroft would do. Mycroft didn't even blink. 

"So you're here because...you like my sofa?" 

"Believe me," said Mycroft dryly. "I have no particular attachment to this piece of...furniture." 

Lestrade grinned. "I'm surprised you're not sitting on a towel." 

"The thought had occurred to me," said Mycroft dryly. 

"I didn't actually find it in a skip." 

"No?" 

"Try not to think about it," suggested Lestrade. "The sofa’s much more comfortable that way." 

Mycroft made a soft humming sound, and then looked around the room. "The décor is…more minimal than I would have expected." 

"Well," said Lestrade, following his gaze around the Spartan room. "I don't really spend a lot of time here." 

"I was surprised that you left work as early as you did." 

"Me too," said Lestrade, and took another pull. 

"You have not..." Mycroft hesitated. "Had difficulties at work, have you? Because of my brother or his somewhat complicated legacy?" 

Lestrade wondered how long he could delay his response. Mycroft was fidgeting – _fidgeting_ , who knew the man even knew _how_ to fidget, and for some reason, watching Mycroft be uncomfortable wasn't half as pleasing as Lestrade would have imagined. Lestrade almost wanted the man to continue fidgeting, just until he'd figured out why the fidgeting bothered him so much. 

He wondered how much Mycroft knew about Sherlock, anyway. 

"A few. It was awkward the first couple of weeks. But no one else wants to believe that Sherlock was really a fake, either. Well, some do. But most don't, and luckily those are the ones in the right places. There’s a task force looking at the back cases. So far, everything’s come up trumps." 

Mycroft nodded briskly, and stopped fidgeting. 

"Surprised you didn't know that," said Lestrade into the beer bottle. "What with being able to access my email address book and calendar." 

"I try to leave you your privacy," said Mycroft, as if granting a boon, and Lestrade nearly spit out his beer. 

"We _have_ to discuss your definition of privacy," he said when he finally was able to breathe, and Mycroft looked inordinately pleased, which was almost as bad as Mycroft being fidgety, in an entirely different way, and Lestrade had nearly figured out why when Mycroft spoke. 

"Your watch." 

"Hmm?" Lestrade looked at his watch. "What about it?" 

"A present from someone?" 

"Yeah, probably. Who buys themselves watches?" 

Mycroft's smile was fleeting. He stood quickly. "Well, I must be off. Pleasure chatting with you." 

Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that it?" 

"Yes," said Mycroft briskly, and he adjusted his coat sleeves. 

"But...you didn't want anything from me." 

"Just a bit of your time and the pleasure of your company," said Mycroft. "Which you gave me, quite freely. Quite a turn-up, wasn't it?" 

Lestrade stared at him, unable to believe that Mycroft could actually make a joke. 

“That’s a joke. You made a joke. You don’t _joke_ ,” he said. 

“I joke,” said Mycroft, and had Lestrade not known better, he might have thought Mycroft was hurt, or even insulted. Affronted. Which was really ridiculous, because if there was anything other than joking that Mycroft never did, it was being upset with something anyone would say about him. 

"You told me you didn’t want anything," Lestrade repeated, because his brain flatly refused to compute the new information about Mycroft, and Mycroft looked thoughtful. 

"And yet you gave it to me. Interesting. I'll keep that in mind." 

"Keep _what_ in mind?!?" 

"Have a pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft, and left the flat, umbrella swinging. 

Lestrade went to the window and watched Mycroft walk down the street. He half wondered why he was disappointed to see him go, before interrupting the thought by punching the wall. 

* 

Four days later, Lestrade found the box sitting on the center of the coffee table. He had no doubt about who left it there and how, and despite his curiosity, didn’t touch it. He even managed not to look at it, mostly because he ate his dinner in the kitchen standing at the counter, ignored the telly, and went straight to bed. 

The box still waited for him in the morning, and was still sitting there when he managed to drag himself home at three the next morning after a hellacious case involving no less than four murder weapons, chasing a goose through Kent Gardens, and one of his team falling into a particularly smelly section of the Thames. 

It was three in the morning. Lestrade barely undressed before falling into the bed, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was wide awake, and couldn’t get his mind off the box on the coffee table. 

After ten minutes, he gave up and went to sit on the couch. He stared at the box, contemplating, before he finally gave up on working up the nerve to open it, and just did it. 

A watch. 

No, scratch that. A _Rolex_ watch. 

A really, really _nice_ Rolex watch. 

Black face, silver dashes instead of numbers, a silver casing. The silver hands had small bulbs at the end, and when Lestrade held it to his ear, the tick was pleasantly quiet and soothing. The black leather strap was brand new, but the watch itself looked as though it’d seen a few knocks. 

Mycroft wouldn’t give just an old Rolex watch to him, especially not with a brand-new strap. Lestrade pulled the watch out of the box and examined it, flipping it over to see the back, which was when his heart stopped beating for a moment. 

_To CH_  
 _-VH_

_To GL_  
 _-MH_

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Lestrade set the watch back down on the table, stood up, and went back to bed. 

Where he stared up at the ceiling until his alarm went off and told him to go to work. He ignored the watch, and went. 

* 

The watch was still there when he came home. He ignored it. 

* 

The watch was still there that weekend. He ignored it. 

* 

On Monday morning, he called John Watson. 

“John,” he said. “It’s Greg. Lestrade.” 

There was a pause; Lestrade couldn’t even hear John breathing. “I do remember you, Greg,” John said finally, and he sounded fine. Just fine. Monotone, careful, and perfectly well. Lestrade didn’t believe it. 

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, mate.” 

“Yeah, well. Laying low.” 

“Been all right?” 

Another pause. “Yeah, fine.” 

Lestrade bit back the sigh. “I hate to ask, John. But – those case notes you kept, when you were chasing around after Sherlock – any chance you could bring them over some day?” 

* 

The next morning, after five solid days of Ignoring The Watch, Lestrade picked it up again. 

He slid it out of the box, put it in his coat’s inner breast pocket, and left for work. 

* 

The watch was a comfortable weight as he walked. Lestrade could feel it bouncing against his chest in time with his steps, a gentle reminder. Or maybe a finger poking him again and again. He wasn’t sure which. It was probably both. But he found that he couldn’t quite take his mind off the watch that morning, more so when John Watson appeared at his office door, bearing gifts in the form of a paper bag containing his case notes. 

“John,” said Lestrade, and wondered if Mycroft had bugged his office, too. He absently wondered if Mycroft would just appear for his report on John’s welfare, or if he’d have to send another email. “Coffee? It’s awful.” 

“And they say that’s not a selling point,” said John. 

It was only while John was racing after him on the way to the murder scene that Lestrade realized that by calling John at all, he had fallen in line with Mycroft’s request. _Again_. 

Bugger. 

* 

The only silver lining that Lestrade could see was that the weariness which wrapped around John like a blanket seemed to fall away at the crime scene. Even Anderson’s presence couldn’t diminish the way John came alive the moment Lestrade turned to him and asked his opinion. For about ten minutes, it was exactly as if the last few months hadn’t happened; that Sherlock had just up and ran off after a missing piece of information, and the two of them were left to roll their eyes at each other and commiserate. 

Lestrade almost didn’t see the figure standing off to the side, but John was busy helping Anderson with the clean-up, and really, Mycroft Holmes at a crime scene was hard to miss. 

“So John’s better,” said Lestrade to Mycroft. “Now, at least.” 

“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “He was not before?” 

“Judging by the sound of his voice over the phone, not really.” 

“You should spend some time with him,” said Mycroft, and Lestrade frowned. 

“Back to ordering me this way and that, I see.” 

“A suggestion.” 

“You don’t suggest.” 

“A request?” 

“You don’t request, either.” 

“You aren’t wearing the watch.” 

Lestrade blinked. “I’m sorry?” 

“The watch. It’s in your breast pocket. Does it not suit?” 

“The watch is fine. We’re talking about John.” 

“No, we were talking about how we were talking about John. We were not, in fact, talking about John.” 

“You had it engraved.” 

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

Mycroft shrugged, and smiled. 

Lestrade couldn’t help it. “Who were CH and VH?” 

“My parents.” 

Lestrade sucked in his breath. “This was your father’s watch?” 

“Yes.” Mycroft was still smiling, still standing relaxed and calm. But Lestrade was close enough to see his eyes, and his eyes bore into him, and didn’t blink. 

“You…had my initials engraved on your father’s watch.” 

“Yes.” 

Lestrade ran his hand through his hair. “I….I don’t even know what to do with that, Mycroft.” 

“I do. Put on the watch.” 

“Why?” 

For a moment, Mycroft looked surprised, a bit like he hadn’t expected Lestrade to question the request. And Lestrade wasn’t all that sure he ever had questioned anything Mycroft had asked him to do – he’d always refused immediately. There hadn’t been dithering. Not to Mycroft, at least. 

“Because—” Mycroft took a breath. “Because I’d like that. And I would like to know if you would like that, too.” 

Lestrade let out a breath. 

“You should take John to a pub and buy him a drink.” 

It was too much of a switch. “What?” asked Lestrade, confused, and he looked over his shoulder to see John Watson, standing in the middle of the now-cleared crime scene, watching them. 

“John. A pub. A pint.” 

“It’s eleven in the morning.” 

“Yes, but I think you both need it,” said Mycroft. 

Lestrade closed his eyes. “I remember when you came over and didn’t actually want something from me. Are you making up for lost time?” 

Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps. You’ll take John for a pint, of course.” 

“Because he needs one. Not because you asked.” 

“That will do. And…the watch?” 

Lestrade couldn’t look at Mycroft. “Tells time. Accurately.” 

Mycroft kept looking at him, and then gave a brisk nod. “Good day, Detective Inspector.” 

Lestrade watched Mycroft walk away, his umbrella swinging. A deception, of course; he could see a stiffness to Mycroft’s shoulders, something about the way he held his head and didn’t look back. The mask of Mycroft Holmes: cool, careful, careless. Lestrade knew better than to believe it – and then wondered why the hell that was. 

“Bloody wanking sodding tossing fucking hell,” he said aloud, just to hear the words, and when he turned to walk back to John, he felt the watch in his coat pocket beat against his chest. 

* 

In a normal, rational world, Lestrade liked having drinks with John. It had stopped being a normal, rational world about three weeks back. Possibly longer. Maybe Mycroft should have given him a calendar instead of a watch. 

His _father's_ watch. Christ. 

Lestrade did not want to have drinks with John. It had nothing to do with not wanting a drink (because he really, really did) or spending time with John (because he liked John well enough, and even without Mycroft's prodding, knew that John needed the company). It had everything to do with the fact that they were two blokes sitting in a pub drinking beer and when two blokes sat in a pub and drank beer together, Conversations Occurred. 

Lestrade, more than anything, did not want a Conversation. 

Luckily, John seemed to feel the same way. 

They talked about the weather. 

They talked about the football. 

They talked about Donovan's transfer, and how, in an odd twist, Anderson was much more cheerful without her around. 

They talked about the traffic. 

They exchanged rumors and theories about the upcoming Bond film. 

And finally, when they'd run out of things, John put down his nearly empty glass and gave Lestrade a look. 

"Mycroft," he said. 

"Sherlock," countered Lestrade. 

"Right," said John, and finished off his beer. 

And that was the Beginning, Middle, and End of the Conversation. 

John left the pub first, steps steady and head presumably clear. Lestrade, by contrast, felt somewhat foggy, and went into the gents’ to splash water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, leaning on the sink, watching his pupils dilate and contract. Finally, without really thinking about it, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the watch. He switched it with the old one, fumbling a little with the clasp. It was loose, but he wasn't quite sober enough to fix it. 

John was long gone by the time Lestrade stepped back outside; the clouds hung low over London, and he could smell the rain in the air. It was a long walk back to Scotland Yard. Lestrade started walking, and felt the watch sliding in circles around his wrist. 

* 

To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: John 

John is coping. We did not discuss your brother.  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: John 

Thank you. And you?  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: John 

What about me?  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: John 

Have you made a decision about the watch?  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: John 

Yes.  
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
From: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John 

Are you going to tell me what it is?  
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes <unrecognized>  
From: Greg Lestrade <glestrade@met.co.uk>  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: John 

You can figure it out.  
  
  


* 

Mycroft waited on Lestrade’s deplorable sofa that evening. Lestrade was not surprised. He put his keys down on the table by the door, walked into the kitchen, grabbed two beers, thought again, put one beer back, and went to join him. 

"You don't drink beer, I assume," he said. 

"No," said Mycroft, eying the bottle. "And in any case, I have to return to work later this evening." 

"Saving the world isn't a nine-to-five job?" asked Lestrade, and sat on the chair opposite Mycroft. He took a pull on the beer, and watched Mycroft's gaze fall on his wrist. 

"As well you know," said Mycroft smoothly. He sat up and stretched out his hand. "May I?" 

Lestrade held up his arm out of reach, letting the sleeve fall down to show him the watch. Mycroft sighed with impatience, and shook his hand again, a second request. 

Afterwards, Lestrade couldn't say why he held his wrist out for Mycroft's inspection. Nor could he explain why his entire body went still at Mycroft's touch. Mycroft turned Lestrade's wrist over and tightened the watch strap one notch, so that it no longer rolled on his arm. The task done, however, Mycroft did not let go of Lestrade's arm. He continued to hold it, without looking at him, and Lestrade let him. 

It was while part of the odd tableau that Lestrade began to wonder. He wondered when one of them would move first. He wondered why Mycroft had given him his father's watch. He wondered how long they had been playing their game. He wondered when anyone had been planning on telling him about it. He wondered why he felt so comfortable, sitting next to Mycroft Holmes, hand in hand. He wondered what Sherlock would have said about it, if he’d been there. 

He wondered, briefly, if Mycroft had waited until Sherlock's opinion was effectively out of the picture before he started to play in earnest. 

Lestrade was about to speak when Mycroft let go of his hand abruptly and stood. 

"A pleasant evening, Greg," said Mycroft evenly, as though they had not sat for however long it was, skin touching, breathing the same air. 

Lestrade struggled to find his feet, and by the time he stood, Mycroft already had his hand on the door to leave. 

"That's it? You’re just going to refasten the watch and go?" 

Mycroft didn't look at him. "Yes." 

"No." Lestrade stepped over to him. "That - that's not how this works." 

Mycroft blinked, but still couldn't look Lestrade in the eye. "That is exactly how this works. I ask, you refuse. Your words, Detective Inspector." 

Lestrade wasn't sure what it was, exactly - Mycroft's refusal to meet his eyes, or the use of his rank - but regardless, everything snapped into place. 

"Not anymore," said Lestrade, and he lifted his wrist to show the watch. "This changes the rules." 

Mycroft swallowed. "They were never my rules to change." 

"No," agreed Gregory Lestrade. "I suppose they weren't." 

Greg was tall; Mycroft was taller by about three inches. Greg had never kissed anyone taller than himself, but the stretch felt right to him. It was all he could do not to keep stretching, right up to the ceiling, because everything about Mycroft's lips against his felt exactly right. All of his muscles and bones wanted to expand, to feel even better than they did right then, with his lips on Mycroft's. 

Only his lips - his hands rested on Mycroft's arms, for balance, or to keep Mycroft from running. Greg, at first, had no doubt that Mycroft would run. He didn't want him to run. Greg didn't want anything more than he had right then, or didn't think he did, until he felt Mycroft's lips under his part, just enough, and Greg knew he wasn't going to run. 

Greg smiled into the kiss. No, not smiled - _grinned_ , full and unabashed, and the kiss broke, but that was all right, because Mycroft wasn't going anywhere. 

"New rules," he said into Mycroft's mouth. 

"I see," said Mycroft, strained, which just made Greg smile wider. 

"We're going to have drinks tomorrow." 

"Yes." 

"And dinner the next night." 

"Yes." 

"And then the opera. Paris is optional. Or the other way around, your choice." 

"I get a choice?" 

"And then I'll meet your mother, and you'll meet my sister." 

"Together," said Mycroft. "No need to waste time." 

Greg nodded. "And then we'll continue where we're leaving off." 

But Mycroft backed away. He looked at Greg now, his eyes half-hooded and dark. "No," he said, and stepped through the door, leaving Greg alone.


	2. Chapter 2

To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Drinks 

When and where?   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Drinks 

Bloody hell, Mycroft?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Drinks 

Your rules are in play, Gregory. Drinks, then dinner. Therefore I am asking: when and where?   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Drinks 

The Feather and Sword, 7pm.   
  
  


* 

To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Dinner 

Drinks were...lovely. I believe dinner is next on your agenda; when and where?   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Dinner 

You hated the drinks.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Dinner 

I hated the locale. I enjoyed the drinks. Dinner?   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Dinner 

Momo, 8.30. You're paying.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Dinner 

Of course.   
  
  


* 

To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Opera 

Faust, Friday, 8.30pm, Royal Opera House.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Opera 

Not Paris, then?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Opera 

Saving for a rainy day.   
  
  


* 

To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Family 

Sunday, The Cottage, luncheon, 11.30am. Casual dress. Please inform your sister; I doubt she would appreciate an invitation by my usual methods.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Family 

I’ll let Jessica know. Does the invitation include her family?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Family 

Of course it does. I would not be so rude to invite her and not those in her household.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Family 

Then you should probably know that I have three extremely energetic nephews.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Family 

I will ensure that Mummy locks up the Ming vase.   
  
  


* 

The Cottage was yellow stone and creeping vines, a riot of flowers in the garden and a gravel drive leading from the main road. It was quiet and peaceful and looked exactly how Greg pictured the Holmes country home to look. His sister was suitably impressed; Greg spent two minutes wondering what the hell he’d got himself into, before Mycroft took his hand and held it tight as a reminder. 

Violet Holmes (also known as Mummy) and Jessica Carter (née Lestrade) got on like a house on fire. Greg wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad thing, though it did mean that luncheon was had without awkward silences or misconstrued comments. Once Violet realized that Jessica rode, they both promptly abandoned the table and headed for the stables, barely pausing to say anything to the men they left behind. Jessica threw a "Behave, boys" over her shoulder to her sons like a napkin falling from her lap to the floor. 

Three sets of eyes stared at Greg, one barely visible over the table. 

"There is, if you follow the path directly off the kitchens," said Mycroft, quite deliberately, "at the base of the woods, a tree house." 

"A tree house?" said the eldest nephew, somewhat scathingly. He was ten, and not much impressed. 

"A pirate ship," amended Mycroft. "It became stuck in the trees some years ago. There is also a pond and a river and a great deal of mud." 

"Are there leeches?" asked the eight-year-old. 

"Scads of them." 

"Come on, Benny, you want a leech for a pet, don't you?" said the boy to the smallest, barely five. He and his elder brother were already halfway to the door. 

"What's a leech?" asked Benny, nervously following his older brothers. "James? James! _What's a leech_?" 

They were gone. Greg could see them tumbling down the path through the gardens. It reminded him of some kind of BBC costume drama, except without the costumes. 

"There," said Mycroft, satisfied. "Would you like a tour of the house?" 

"Are there really leeches?" asked Greg. 

Mycroft laughed. 

* 

The house wasn't enormous, nor was it grand. It was, however, old, and Mycroft clearly took pleasure in pointing out the very oldest bits of architecture to him, the places where the original stones were still lovingly displayed, where the wooden floors had defied replacement, where the windows had been updated carefully and expertly to retain the original sashes. In the midst of the history were modern and homey touches; photographs of people Gregory both did and did not recognize; floral pillows; knickknacks scattered on shelves and tables; a forgotten teacup from early that morning. And books. Thousands of books, set neatly in rows on the built-in bookshelves, or piled in corners, or resting on tabletops, most of them with bookmarks still between the pages. Greg glanced at the titles, and saw Trollope, Silva, Milton, Darwin, Shakespeare, Hawking, King, and Eliot, as well as three sets of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and possibly every textbook printed in the English language, as well as French, German, what might have been Greek, and a few he didn’t recognize at all. 

"Your mother loves to read," he said. 

"Horses and books," said Mycroft, standing near the doorway. 

Greg moved along the room, closer to Mycroft. The entire tour, Mycroft had been formal - pleasant, but formal, in a way that didn't sit quite right, not compared to the previous week, filled with drinks, dinner, and opera. 

But even then, Greg thought, Mycroft had remained elusive - physically, anyway. Every time Greg took one step closer to him, Mycroft took one step away. Greg might have taken that as a sign or a hint - except. The night they had drinks, Mycroft had pressed his legs next to Greg's under the table. The night they had dinner, he had twined their feet together as they ate. And just as the lights dimmed at the opera house, he had reached over and taken Greg's hand, and held it tightly throughout the performance. 

Greg wasn't sure what to think, except now, they were caught up, back to where they'd started the new version of their dance. He remembered the feel of Mycroft's lips under his, and wasn't inclined to wait much longer. 

"I like your mother," said Greg. 

"I'm glad," said Mycroft, as though there could have been no other possibility. "I believe she likes you, as well." 

"She barely spoke to me, once she realized Jessica loves horses." 

"If she hadn't liked you, she would have made your meal quite miserable," said Mycroft, amused. 

Greg was within arm's length of Mycroft; he could see his chest rise and fall with every breath. "Mycroft—" 

"The kitchens," said Mycroft, and slipped through the door, just as Greg reached for him. With a sigh, Greg followed. 

The kitchens deserved their plural, being not so much one large room but a series of smaller work areas, cobbled together like tiny soap bubbles. They extended from the back of the house into the gardens on either side, and even without Mycroft telling him, Greg could tell that each extension was newer than the last. He wasn't sure if it was his eyes, now trained by Mycroft to spot the stylistic differences in the fixtures and the moldings, or if it was the feel that every station was just a bit different from the rest. 

"I spent most of my time here when I was young," said Mycroft, and Greg glanced at him. 

"You and Sherlock?" 

"No, he preferred to be outdoors. I liked the kitchens, watching the cook create the things she sent out to my parents and whoever else was eating that night. Sometimes she'd slip me bits of apples wrapped in leftover pastry when my nanny wasn't looking. It was safe here." 

Greg wondered what made the rest of the house unsafe, but didn't question. Mycroft stood in the center of the room, hands resting on the back of a chair, back straight and for once, not wearing a suit, though the shirt was no less tailored, and the cashmere jumper no less finely woven. He even had a tie, but Greg supposed the lack of jacket was what passed for casual for Mycroft Holmes. 

Mycroft looked at home. Comfortable. Almost inviting familiarity in a way that made Greg forget that the man could ever be formidable and terrifying. 

Greg crossed the room and moved Mycroft's hand from the back of the chair. He placed it on his waist, turned Mycroft just enough to face him, and reached up to kiss his jaw. 

Mycroft's breath caught, but his fingers pressed into Greg's side, just barely, enough to give Greg the impression that he wasn't to move away anytime soon. Greg kissed him again, this time a little higher along his jawline. 

"I'm surprised there isn’t a bevy of servants in here," said Greg softly. Mycroft wasn't trembling, not quite, but his heart had picked up speed; Greg could feel it nearly pounding through his chest, and his breathing had become ragged in the span of seconds. 

"Mother would have given the cook the day off," whispered Mycroft. "She's quite self-sufficient." 

"I gathered." Greg ran his hand up Mycroft's sleeves, and caught his arm around his back to hold him close. Mycroft wasn't looking at him, his eyes were focused instead on the table, blinking rapidly. "Oi. Mycroft. To me." 

Mycroft eyes darted to him, wide and open and for a moment, Greg thought he saw fear there, before Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. Greg was so surprised by the fear that he loosened his grip on Mycroft, just enough to let the man step away, out of his reach. 

"There is a sitting room upstairs, perhaps you'd like to see." 

Greg stared at Mycroft, wondering if this was code for something. But the man was fixing his sleeves, straightening the cuffs, and refusing to meet Greg's eyes. It was impossible to tell what he meant, and Greg half wanted to throw him down on the kitchen table and snog him senseless. 

"Right," said Greg. "Lead the way." 

The sitting room was nothing particularly intriguing, though it felt more like a room Greg would have expected in his own home, growing up. There was a telly in the corner, a few sofas that might have done with new upholstery, a basket full of knitting, on top of which was a half-finished deep blue scarf, marking the nearby chair as Mummy Holmes's refuge. And photographs - photographs on every flat surface and every square of the wall. Greg examined each one, while Mycroft leaned against the doorframe and watched him. 

"Is this you?" Greg asked, the laughter in the back of his throat, as he peered at one of a teen-aged boy standing in a garden. "It is, isn't it?" 

The boy was somewhat stocky, but not overly so. He wore clothing that was remarkably similar to what Mycroft wore that day, but the colors were faded in the way that color photographs from the 1970s went a bit golden when exposed to too much sunlight. It was clearly a favorite photograph, or at least one that had been displayed for years on end. In the photo, Mycroft's arms were crossed, and though he faced the camera, his eyes were mid-roll, an impatient and exasperated expression on his face. 

The reason for his annoyance was clear - in the background, much smaller and about to leap off the stone wall that separated the garden from the long yard leading to the woods, was a young boy. His arms were outstretched, his hair was tousled and tumbled and a riot of dark curls. His mouth was open in a half-yell, but Greg wasn't sure if it was surprise that he was falling off the wall, or a defiant shout that he was in the process of jumping on purpose. 

It hit Greg like a bullet to his heart. Sherlock, about to jump, while Mycroft's back was turned. 

Greg ran his fingers along the glass and closed his eyes. He straightened back up and went to look at the other photographs. But all he could see was that one, Sherlock and Mycroft as exuberant child and sullen teenager. 

"You can go back to look at it," said Mycroft. 

Greg thought about denying his interest, but went back anyway. He picked up the frame and studied it. "Do you remember it being taken?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You were what, fifteen?" 

"Fourteen. I was home for Easter holidays from school. Mummy wanted a photograph of her boys in the garden. Sherlock had other ideas." 

"Coudn't sit still, you mean." 

"Precisely," said Mycroft, a ghost of a smile. "I don't think I ever saw him sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. And he always expected me to follow. When he was a toddler, he would come and take my hand, drag me to whatever he wanted to do." 

Greg asked before he thought. "Is he falling or jumping?" 

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Do you know, I've never been able to tell." 

Greg set the photograph back down on the table. 

"That's all of the tour, I'm afraid. Only rooms left are the bedrooms," said Mycroft. 

"Lead on," said Greg with a grin. "I'd like to see if you sleep in a coffin or not." 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "All right." 

Most of the doors were open; guest rooms, a master suite with adjoining bathroom. There was a door that remained firmly closed, and because Mycroft didn't even glance at it, Greg had the idea that it had been Sherlock's room. He would have liked to see it, just to know if it was half as disheveled as Baker Street, but decided not to press - and anyway, Mycroft was already opening a second closed door. 

"No coffin," he said, and Greg stepped inside, feeling his heart pound. 

The room was simple and mostly unadorned, which was something of a relief after the chaotic and comfortable mess downstairs. There were a few pieces of mahogany furniture: a dressing table, a chair, a side-table, and a double bed with posts that reached the ceiling. The floor was covered with a Turkish rug that had faded into a mess of tans and reds, but the curtains and walls and bedding were a bright and cheerful white. It looked plain. A bit like no one lived there at all. Even the bookshelf, set in the corner, was devoid of decoration. 

Greg walked over to the window, and found himself looking out onto the garden. He could see the tree house, which was indeed shaped something like a pirate ship, and three small figures darting in the trees. 

"What a sad room," said Greg, and could have bitten his tongue. 

"Yes," said Mycroft. He'd moved closer now, and stood next to the bed. "I suppose so. I haven't lived here in years." 

"Why a pirate ship?" 

"I've no idea," said Mycroft, and Greg walked back to him. It was an easy thing, somehow, to reach up and kiss Mycroft Holmes. It was better that Mycroft, amazingly, kissed back. Greg rested a hand on the back of Mycroft's neck, the soft, short hairs tickling his fingertips, and kept the kiss light and careful, right up to when Mycroft made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Greg couldn't hold it in any longer. He tightened his grip on Mycroft's neck, turned him, and pushed him back onto the bed. 

"Greg," said Mycroft, but Greg kissed him again before he could even finish saying his name. He knew where Mycroft was going, and for the moment, he didn't want to go there. 

Besides, Mycroft wound his hands onto Greg's arms, holding him in, and his mouth opened under Greg's lips, hungrily leaning into the kiss. Greg didn't push. He _wanted_ to push, he wanted to shove Mycroft until the man was lying down on the bed and he was on top of him; he wanted to tear the jumper off him, unbutton the shirt (or maybe ignore the buttons altogether and just rip it right off). He _wanted_ to fix his mouth onto the hollow in Mycroft's throat and pull until the suction made Mycroft groan, throw his head back and wrap his arms around Greg, holding him closer. 

But he didn't. He held it back, stayed on his feet, let Mycroft hold him steady as he kissed his lips softly, gently. Ran his tongue along Mycroft's teeth and when Mycroft pressed up, wanting more, Greg changed his focus, kissed just to the side of his lips, never full on, never letting Mycroft go further than Greg was willing to let him go. He ran his fingers through the hair at the back of Mycroft's head, and smiled when he heard the soft sigh. Ah, then. Good to know. 

He pulled away, not quite enough to see Mycroft in focus, but enough to let them both breathe. 

"Told you we'd pick up where we left off." 

"Yes," whispered Mycroft. 

"Do you want—?" 

"Yes." 

But when Greg tried to push Mycroft back, Mycroft threw one hand behind him to keep from falling over. He ran his other down Greg's arm, to circle the watch with his fingers. He closed his eyes, and rubbed the watch face absently. 

"Wait." 

Greg swallowed, confused. "But—" 

"I—" Mycroft took a breath, eyes still closed. "I told you before. I'm a traditional sort of man." 

"Mycroft—" 

Mycroft pulled Greg's hand to his mouth, and moved his head to the side as he kissed the palm. He held it to his lips, breathing against it, and Greg instinctively cupped Mycroft's face. 

"You’re an enigma, and not only do you know it, you love it," said Greg, but fondly, and Mycroft smiled into Greg's hand. 

"I know. Allow me to have my foibles." 

"Singular, I think." 

"Not quite." 

"All right," said Greg, and Mycroft kissed his palm again, before releasing his hand. He rested his head against Greg's chest, and they remained so entwined, Greg's hands in Mycroft's hair, Mycroft listening to Greg's heart beat. 

"Say yes," said Mycroft suddenly, and then repeated it before Greg had a chance to answer. “Say yes.” 

"Yes," said Greg immediately, not even questioning, and he felt Mycroft relax under his hands. 

He thought he understood why, and kept stroking his head. 

* 

To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: 25th of October 

Please keep your diary free.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: 25th of October 

I'm surprised you didn't already block it off in my calendar.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: 25th of October 

I did, but I thought I should warn you before you made arrangements without checking first.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

Thank you for your consideration. Are you finally kidnapping me and taking me to Paris?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

No. Would you mind?   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

Yes, actually. For one thing, the 25th is a Tuesday. If you’re going to kidnap me, do it at a weekend. For another, I'd appreciate some warning.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

I'm giving you warning. Tuesday, the 25th of October.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

What are you warning me _about_ , exactly?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

You may want to keep Wednesday the 26th free as well.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

So it _is_ Paris.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

It is not Paris, I assure you.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

Do I need to do anything? Before Tuesday.   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

If you like.   
  
  


To: Mycroft Holmes  
From: Greg Lestrade  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

Going to give me a hint?   
  
  


To: Greg Lestrade  
From: Mycroft Holmes  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: 25th of October 

I’m quite certain you can think of something appropriate without my assistance.   
  
  


* 

Greg circled the date on his desk calendar, and then ignored it. There was a murder, a ridiculously nasty one, the sort that Sherlock would love. Greg tried not to think about Sherlock, despite having called John almost immediately. It was reflex, really, calling John in, and John came, also out of reflex, and tried to be Sherlock, and wasn't half bad at it. Greg knew they both heard the dark-haired man scoffing in the background, belittling their efforts. He could see it in the grim determination in John's eyes, and the way his jaw clenched tightly after making some kind of deductive guess. 

By the time the murder was solved - twice as long as it would take Sherlock, Greg was sure, but in half the time it might have taken him without John to bounce ideas off - it was the Saturday before the Tuesday circled on the calendar. 

"I'm going home to sleep," said John. "See you Tuesday, yeah?" 

"What's Tuesday?" asked Greg automatically, shuffling the papers on his desk. 

"Day after Monday?" said John, and Greg looked up, frowning, about to make a snarky remark back, when he saw John's face. He was - amused. Maybe a bit concerned. 

Greg froze, and it hit him. "Christ, I'd forgotten." He frowned. "You know about Tuesday?" 

John frowned at him. "Ah - stupid question. But - do _you_ know about Tuesday?" 

"Yeah," said Greg defensively. "Just..." 

"I won't pretend I'm not hurt that you didn't ask me yourself." 

"Christ," said Greg again, and sat down hard on his chair, enough to send it rolling back to the wall. He covered his face with his hands, and tried to breathe. "Oh, shit bugger hell that bloody wanking _tosser_." 

"Greg—" John's worried voice was much closer now. "You – didn't know?" 

"Do me a favor, let's not talk about it." 

" _Greg_." 

"I need a haircut," said Greg, and pushed himself out of the chair, past John, and out the door. He was already jamming his finger on the lift button when John caught up with him, carrying his coat. 

"Forgot this," said John. 

"Ta," said Greg, staring at the lift doors. 

"Do you - want - I can—" 

"No," said Greg. "But...Tuesday. You'll be there." 

"Yes," said John. "If you want." 

Greg didn't answer until the lift arrived. John let him step on alone. 

"Without a doubt," said Greg, staring right at John, and the doors closed between them. 

* 

It should not have been a surprise. Drinks, dinner, a trip to the opera. Lunch with the family. Stolen kisses, quiet conversations, a moment of peace as they held hands, the watch band snug on his wrist, their engraved initials against his skin. 

This was the next logical step, and Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not a logical man. 

"I'm a traditional man," Mycroft had told Greg, and Greg thought he'd known what that meant. 

Greg tried to write an email, and couldn't. He tried to send a text, and couldn't. He tried to ring Mycroft, and got nearly as far as pressing "send" before dropping his phone on the sofa, and instead of ringing anyone, he put on his coat and went outside to walk aimlessly through London, and pretended that the conversation he had in his head wasn't just in his head. 

" _Mycroft_ ," said the Sherlock Holmes in his head, completely disgusted. "Honestly, Lestrade. I thought you had better taste." 

But Mycroft wasn't so bad. He was an overbearing, insufferable, pretentious walking encyclopedia who had an unhealthy attachment to umbrellas and detective inspectors, but he wasn't bad. Greg had the idea that Mycroft tried to be _good_ on occasion, and every so often, succeeded. 

"When does Mycroft try to be good?" scoffed Sherlock. 

He was unfailingly polite. He was courteous. He was considerate of Greg's feelings - well, most of the time, when he wasn't trying to keep the upper hand in the ridiculous game they were playing. 

"That's all you are to him, you know," said Sherlock scathingly. "A game. And he's _winning_. You're _letting_ him win when you let him dictate the rules." 

"They're my rules," said Greg. 

"Not now. _Your_ rules ended with luncheon at Mother's house. Mycroft's been calling the shots ever since." 

Greg groaned and let his head fall back. People surged around him, going about their daily business without any thought to the man who was having an identity crisis on the pavement. 

Except - it wasn't really an identity crisis, not really, because Greg Lestrade knew who he was and what he was scheduled to do on Tuesday morning and who he was scheduled to do it with. 

"And that doesn't bother you?" taunted Sherlock. "Pledging your life to my brother?" 

Greg thought about the whirlwind week when he spoke to Mycroft every single day, woke up looking forward to the playful back-and-forth, the plans in the evening, the tricks Mycroft had up his sleeve and the tricks he had up his own. The way Mycroft almost smiled when he was pleased and the far-off look in his eyes when he was thinking of something else, and moreover, the way Greg wanted to pull his attention back and keep it firmly on the here and now. 

"What you need to determine," said Sherlock in his head, "is whether or not you want to fall in with Mycroft's plans." 

But Greg wasn’t falling into Mycroft’s _plans_. Those were the least of it. And Greg wasn't the only one doing the pledging. That was the point of Tuesday - the pledging would go both ways. 

Greg started walking again, this time with a brighter step. 

"My brother has secrets," Sherlock cautioned him. "He won't tell them to you." 

Greg picked up the pace. 

"He'll get bored of the game once you're his. You'll end up hating each other." 

Greg grinned, and started to run. 

"He's my _brother_!" 

Greg ignored the voice, and went straight up the steps and back into his flat. He half expected Mycroft to be waiting for him, but instead, his mobile was ringing. 

"Mycroft," said Greg, delighted. 

"Try not to catch cold before Tuesday," said Mycroft wearily. 

"Mess up your plans?" 

"Precisely." 

"Can't have that," said Greg. "You invited John." 

"I thought you would approve." 

"I do. I'm inviting Jessica and the boys." 

There was a pause. "If you wish." 

"And your mother." 

There was a longer pause. "Why?" 

"Mycroft," said Greg, and he grinned through his scolding tone. "Such an important day. And you don't want to invite your own mother?" 

"You don't have her phone number." 

"But I'm sure Jessica does. Your _mother_ , Mycroft.” Greg paused before plunging on. “I don’t know how to contact anyone else in your family." 

"There is no one else to contact," said Mycroft, after the smallest pause. Greg thought he knew what the pause meant, and took a breath. 

"Right then." Greg cleared his throat, suddenly loathe to finish the call. "Tuesday." 

"Tuesday," said Mycroft quietly. 

Greg listened to Mycroft breathe for a moment, and wondered why the other man didn't hang up. 

"Your hair is dripping," said Mycroft. 

Greg rolled his eyes. " _Tuesday_ , Mycroft. Don’t be late." 

He ended the call with a grin, and whistled in the shower. 

* 

He woke late on Tuesday morning, the sunlight streaming into the windows, and when he looked at the watch, ticking time on the side table, he swore. “Shite,” he groaned, and pushed his exhausted limbs out of the bed and into the shower. The water was too hot and then too cold, and he stood under the spray and shook the drops out of his hair over and over in turn. 

He shaved, carefully, was shocked when he found his hands shaking, and was relieved when he didn’t nick himself. 

Greg planned to wear the trousers, and blue shirt, and brown coat which Mycroft had brought for his trip to the estate, but when he opened his wardrobe, there was a new suit bag waiting for him. Greg sighed, shook his head, and unzipped it to find a crisp white shirt with faint grey lines running through it, and a dark grey suit. No waistcoat, but somehow, Greg wasn’t surprised. No tie, either, and Greg glanced at the ties he owned before determining that if Mycroft wasn’t supplying him with a tie, there was probably a good reason for that. 

He glanced at the watch, now strapped to his wrist, and decided to hell with reason. 

He left the flat and saw the black car waiting for him at the kerb. He walked up to the driver’s window and knocked politely. It rolled down. 

“Sir,” said the driver. 

“Does he think I don’t know where to go?” asked Greg. 

“I have no idea, sir.” 

“I have a stop to make first.” 

“Of course.” 

“You’ll have to tell me where this came from,” added Greg, touching the lapel on his coat. 

“It’s not far from our destination, as it happens.” 

“Excellent,” said Greg, and got in the car. 

* 

The entire transaction took ten minutes. Greg stepped out onto the pavement, the bag in his hand, and glanced up and down the street. The black car waited at the kerb, of course, but he stepped up and knocked on the window again. 

“I think I’ll walk,” he said when the window rolled down. 

“As you like, sir,” said the driver, and pulled into traffic without him. 

Greg walked, relishing the stretch in his legs and the way the chilled October air cooled his lungs. There was a bit of a breeze, and it ruffled his recently cut hair pleasantly. He was running late, but he wasn’t going to run. He made his own time, and if Mycroft Holmes hadn’t figured that out by now, then by God, he would learn it. 

Greg grinned at the prospect, and rounded the corner. 

John Watson waited for him, sitting on a bench opposite the building, and sprang to his feet when he saw Greg approach. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn to Moriarty’s trial, but it hung loose on him now, and there were dark circles under his eyes. 

“You’re late,” he said. 

“Feather and tar me, call out the army,” said Greg dryly, and John rolled his eyes. 

“Hardly,” John said, and patted his coat pocket, as if to check something. “Right. Room 27.” 

Greg glanced up at the building as John began to jog up the steps. He thought he saw a familiar figure at one of the windows, looking out, and he nodded briskly at the figure, before following. Greg decided to pretend his heart pounded because of the walk and the stairs. It was a bit easier that way. 

It was a comfortable room on the second floor, more like a sitting room than an office-space, and Greg had no doubt that Mycroft had pulled strings to get them there. He saw Jessica first, with the three boys in dress trousers and new jumpers, and she came over to kiss Greg’s cheek and squeeze his hand. 

“So proud of you,” she whispered in his ear, and he kissed her back, spontaneously, and tousled James’s hair as he passed. 

Violet Holmes was dressed in a peach suit, with a brightly colored scarf draped over her shoulders. She was sitting on a wingchair near the fireplace, and Greg went to her next, leaning over to kiss the cheek she offered him. 

“I see you were busy this morning,” she said, eyeing the bag he carried, and Greg grinned. 

“Have to keep him on his toes.” 

“Indeed,” murmured Violet, and let him go. 

Mycroft’s assistant was working on her Blackberry, typing away, wearing her customary suit. “Five minutes,” she said to him, not looking up once. 

“Ta,” said Greg. 

Mycroft waited by the fireplace. He was wearing a light grey suit, white shirt, waistcoat – and no tie. He waited patiently, same as he always did, and Greg tried not to smile at him. It was a hard thing to accomplish, and he wondered when the hell not smiling at a Holmes brother had been difficult to do. Greg stopped just a pace away from him, and waited. 

“You came,” said Mycroft. 

“You asked,” said Greg. 

“Not really.” 

Greg shook his head, and opened the bag. “I have something for you.” 

“Oh?” 

“Like you don’t know it,” said Greg, and pulled out the pair of ties he’d bought. “Good thing you bought the suits together, or your tailor would have been at a complete loss which one was for you.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You went to my tailor?” 

“I’m hardly going to put a tie bought at Marks and Sparks on a man who wears bespoke suits, now am I?” Greg scolded him, and draped the tie for himself over his shoulder. “Lift up your collar, let’s put it on you.” 

Mycroft took the tie and examined it. It was medium blue, with a silver thread running through in a criss-cross pattern - enough to give the silk some sparkle, but not enough that it was noticeable across a room. “Adequate,” he allowed, but Greg heard the catch in his throat. Greg took the tie from Mycroft and slung it over his neck, under his collar. He frowned. 

“I’m not sure I can tie a tie like this,” he said finally, and Mycroft chuckled. He turned, and sat on the chair next to them, and Greg automatically put his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders, suddenly conscious that this was the closest he’d come to actually hugging Mycroft, with witnesses. But none of them paid them any heed; the boys scuffled in the back of the room and Jessica scolded them; Violet and the assistant discussed something about flowers and dinner plans, and the warmth from Mycroft’s shoulders drew Greg closer to him, just by sheer proximity. He pressed up against Mycroft’s back, leaning over enough to watch his fingers work the silk into a knot. Once tied, but not tightened, he paused, and let his hands fall on Mycroft’s shoulders, as if testing him for height. 

It wasn’t too bad, really. 

Mycroft stood, and turned, and Greg reached up to push the knot up to his throat, and then down, just a little, to give him room to breathe. “There,” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick and hoarse. “Don’t want to choke you.” 

Mycroft said nothing; he reached for the tie on Greg’s shoulder, and smiled. A darker blue than his own, with gold threads instead of silver, but clearly the same pattern. He slowly turned Greg’s collar up, and wrapped the silk around his neck. Greg remained stock still, eyes focused on Mycroft’s face, until Mycroft turned him around by the shoulders and pulled him back against his chest to finish the job. 

“Over, under, around, through,” said Mycroft under his breath, and Greg’s mouth quirked. 

“How often do you tie a tie, you have to remind yourself how to do it?” he asked. 

“Every day,” said Mycroft. “And today, yes. I do.” 

Greg took a breath, and turned back around to face him. Mycroft pulled the knot tight, and then fixed it just under Greg’s throat. 

“That right?” asked Greg. 

Mycroft paused, his hands still on the tie. He looked at Greg. “Don’t you?” 

Greg smiled, and didn’t answer. 

* 

_I declare that I know of no legal reason why we may not register as each other’s civil partner. I understand that on signing this document we will be forming a civil partnership with each other._

* 

The words were dry, formal, and clumsy on Greg’s tongue. But everything else – Violet Holmes in her wingchair, watching with a handkerchief in clutched in her hand to dab at her otherwise dry eyes, Jessica grinning madly as if she knew the best secret in the world, his nephews shuffling and shoving each other in the back of the room, John standing nearby – those things, Greg recognized. 

The only thing that made it feel the least bit real, and not a play they were all acting in, was Mycroft’s assistant, who stood behind Mycroft, and who had actually, miraculously, put away her Blackberry for the duration of the short ceremony as it were. Greg saw, breathed in so deep his lungs hurt, and said the words. 

Mycroft signed the document, and handed the pen to Greg, who signed his name with barely a pause. When he stood again, John was holding something out to him, cupped in his hand. 

“What’s this?” asked Greg, and John dropped two rings in his hand. 

“If you’d rather not,” said Mycroft, and Greg examined the rings. One white gold, with flecks of yellow gold worked in. One yellow gold, with flecks of white gold worked in. Greg grinned, and remembered the ties. 

“Which one’s which?” 

“You’re the one who selected the ties,” replied Mycroft, with a slight smile. 

Greg picked up the white gold ring with the yellow gold flecks and reached for Mycroft’s hand. It slid onto his finger and past the knuckle easily. Mycroft took the other, and Greg held his breath as the ring went on his own finger. It stopped, just slightly above the knuckle, but Mycroft gave it a gentle nudge, and it slid on. 

Greg exhaled. 

“Congratulations,” said the officiant. “I’ll be back in a moment with your copy of the certificate.” 

Mycroft still held onto Greg's hand. He lifted an eyebrow, and Greg wondered why that move still annoyed him. 

"Yes," Greg said, firmly. "All right." 

"Good," said Mycroft, and turned to greet his new family. 

* 

There were fairy cakes and punch for the boys, and somewhat stiffer drinks and petit fours for the adults. Greg was handed a whiskey and soda but didn't actually drink it, and wondered exactly how he had suddenly walked into a very small, very exclusive cocktail party. 

"So," said John, standing next to him by the window. 

"Yeah," said Greg, watching Mycroft and his assistant in the corner of the room, discussing something in low tones he suspected would result in a government takeover or at the very least, a parking ticket. Mycroft was not holding onto a drink, and Greg envied him the ability to carry on like it was a normal day. Greg might not have been drinking his drink, but he was still extremely glad to have it in his hand. Just in case anything became weird. 

Weird _er_. 

"Well, this is an enlightening conversation," said John, and Greg afforded him a glance. 

"Sorry, mate." 

"You know what this means," said John. "It means I'm never going to be rid of Mycroft Holmes. I was looking forward to never being kidnapped again." 

Greg began to giggle. He couldn't help it. 

"Not being kidnapped is overrated," he managed to say, before doubling over. "Oh, Christ. I'm married to Mycroft Holmes." 

"Just figured that out, did you?" 

"No, but..." Greg straightened, and took a very large gulp of the whiskey and soda. "There is not enough whiskey in this drink." 

"There isn't enough whiskey in the _world_." 

"Oi," said Greg, holding out his hand, already somewhat unsteady. "That's my other half you're insulting." 

"Meant to be insulting you, actually," said John. "So what now? Joint accounts, holidays in Majorca, matching ties? Well, strike that last one, you've already got them. Pitter-patter of little feet?" 

"Sod off. I don't know." 

"Always wondered if he lived in the penthouse in some fancy high-rise along the Thames, or if he was in one of those grand estate houses in Kensington, private garden and security at the door." 

Lestrade took another drink. "I have no idea." 

John stared at him. "Wait - you don't know where he lives?" 

"Not really." 

"How can you not know where he _lives_?" 

"I never went there. He invited me, once. Mentioned a fireplace. I didn't take him up on it." 

John was mystified. "But...where are _you_ going to live?" 

"I—" Greg realized he had no idea. He drained the rest of the glass. "Well, I'm well and truly fucked, aren't I?" 

"It's Mycroft Holmes," said John. "There is a really good chance that by the time we leave this room, your flat is going to be completely cleared of all your belongings, your lease will have been cancelled, and the new occupants will already be moving in." 

Greg groaned, and then groaned again when he realized his glass was empty. 

"I'm cutting you off," added John. "Alcohol, that is. My couch is always available." 

"Oh God," said Greg. "I'm going to sleep with Mycroft Holmes." 

John began to giggle. "No. Mycroft Holmes doesn't sleep with people. It would mean taking off the suit." 

Greg snickered. "Don't ask what he does with the umbrella." 

John doubled over, laughing, and Greg joined in. They had to lean on each other to stop from falling over, and Greg thought he'd die from laughing when he saw the black shoes standing nearby. He looked up, and saw Mycroft standing next to him, eyebrow raised. Of course. 

"Hi," said Greg, grinning. He shoved his elbow into John's ribs, and they both struggled to stand up and keep straight faces. It was something of a losing battle on both counts as the giggles continued to erupt. 

"I'm afraid we'll need to be going," said Mycroft. "We only had this room for two hours." 

"John's cutting me off anyway," said Greg. Mycroft smiled, and gave a short nod to John. "Where - ah - what do we do now?" 

Mycroft shrugged, lightly. "What would you like to do?" 

"Please don't answer that question until I'm gone," said John firmly, and took Greg's hand in a firm handshake. "Greg. Congratulations. All the best. For God's sake, good luck. And never, ever mention umbrellas to me again." 

"Right," said Greg. 

"Mycroft," said John, "if he shows up on my doorstep in tears I'm giving him my sofa. And then I'm going to kill you. Got it?" 

"I'll ensure my protection officers not stop you," said Mycroft. 

"Good. I appreciate that. Cheerio, gentleman. Please, for the love of Christ, don't call me for a week." 

"Well," said Greg, watching John leave the room, after brief words with Jessica and Violet Holmes. "I didn't really expect that." 

"Didn't you? I've had standing orders with my protection officers for the last month to give John Watson full and complete access to me without any interference on their part." 

Greg looked back at Mycroft. "You really have protection officers?" 

"Of course." 

"Do I?" 

"You don't want them." 

"Not particularly." 

Mycroft nodded briskly. "If you're ready, we'll say our goodbyes and go." 

"Where?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Where are we going?" 

"Home, of course," said Mycroft, and he turned and walked back to his mother. 

Home. Greg took a breath, and followed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, they’re playing the same game. Until someone spills a secret…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s where I earn the NC-17 rating. If you’re reading this on AO3, you’ll notice it’s part of a series now – that’s because there is at least one follow-up one-shot, possibly two, in the making. If you’ve subscribed to the fic already, make sure you switch your subscription to the series, or you may not get a notice when I post them. (I only mention because I’ve missed fics for exactly the same reason before!)

Greg barely remembered what he said to Mycroft's mother, or his sister, on their way out. He wasn't altogether certain he'd even said goodbye to his nephews, except that Benny had pulled him down whisper in his ear. 

"Do I have to call him Uncle?" Benny had asked, worry in his eyes, and Greg had looked back at Mycroft, speaking quietly and formally to his mother, who did not look the least bit pleased for some reason. 

"It would be the polite thing to do," said Greg. 

"If I call him Uncle, will he let me play in the pirate ship again?" 

"I think so, yes." 

"All right," said Benny, mollified. 

In the car, Greg stretched out his legs and tried to imagine Mycroft answering to the name uncle, opening presents on Christmas morning, attending the boys' school plays and graduations, and later on, their weddings. It didn't seem quite real, a bit like he was trying to shove an accordion into a concerto by Mozart. Or perhaps, more appropriately, the other way around. 

He glanced at Mycroft, sitting next to him, frowning at his mobile. "Something wrong?" 

"No," said Mycroft, and he pocketed the mobile. "You cleared your schedule for today and tomorrow, of course." 

"You did ask." 

"But I did not confirm." 

"Oh, good, you _did_ look privacy up in the dictionary. Yes, I cleared today and tomorrow, and just in case, no one will expect me on Thursday until later in the morning." 

"Excellent," said Mycroft, and fell silent again. Greg didn't take his eyes off him this time; Mycroft stared straight ahead, not quite relaxed against the seat, his hands resting lightly on his knees. Greg watched him swallow, his throat working, his breathing so even that it was clear Mycroft was carefully schooling every move he made, even the involuntary ones. 

"Mycroft," said Greg finally. 

"Yes?" 

"What are we doing?" 

Mycroft glanced over at him. "I thought we just clarified matters?" 

"No, not really. I don't think we ever really _discussed_. And for that matter, you still haven't told me where we're going." 

"Yes, I did. We're going home." 

"Great. Where is that?" 

"Here," said Mycroft, and the car stopped. Greg glanced at Mycroft, who hadn't moved, and then stepped out of the car onto the pavement. 

They were in a quiet section of St John's Wood, with houses pushed back from the street and surrounded by whitewashed brick walls, topped with ornamental black bars. There was an iron gate set into the wall just opposite the car, and Greg pushed his hands into his pocket, looking above the wall to the house that was just visible behind the two trees on either side of the gate. Red brick, four storeys at least, and set back enough that, judging from the trees, there would be space for something of a garden. 

"This is yours?" asked Greg, as Mycroft stepped out of the car. 

"No," said Mycroft. 

"But—" 

"It's ours," said Mycroft, and stepped past Greg to unlock and open the gate. Or tried – the key proved to be somewhat difficult, and Mycroft struggled with it, distracted for a minute. "Mummy gave me the key this morning. It belonged to her grandmother - ah, there. We'll want to call someone in to fix this gate, it's rather rusted over. I haven't been here since I was quite a small child, so it will be new to me as well." 

He pushed open the gate, which let out a loud and complaining screech, and turned back to Greg. "Coming?" 

Greg let out a laugh. "Your mother - gave you a house?" 

"No, she gave _us_ a house," said Mycroft patiently. "You hardly thought we would continue to live in our separate residences, did you?" 

"I imagined you'd already have a house," said Greg. 

Mycroft shook his head. "A flat which, while suitable enough, is nothing quite so spacious as this. It’s rather full of ornamental things. Attempt to wedge you in? Ridiculous. Much better for us both to start off fresh in somewhere neutral, don't you agree?" 

Greg grinned. "Yeah. I do." 

Greg moved past Mycroft, their coats brushing against each other, and he had to duck under the ivy that hung down on the opposite side of the wall. When he finally straightened himself, feeling a bit like a character in a fairy story, he found himself standing in the center of a green and brown garden. There were terracotta pots lining the flagstone path, iron-and-wooden benches, and even a small gargoyle, set near the door, staring out to guard its treasure. 

There was a small, round table, with two smaller, round chairs, set to the side, the perfect place to sit out and drink a cup of tea with a guest on fine days. He could see where the flowers would bloom in the summer, and where the holly could be hung in at Christmas. With fairy lights and luminaries lighting the path, and cheerful music spilling out of the windows, and dark corners where lovers could sneak small kisses and secret words. 

He smiled, liking it already, and turned to Mycroft, who was closing the gate behind them. 

"No fountain?" quipped Greg, and Mycroft smiled. 

"We can add one. There is an additional garden in the rear, if I remember correctly. A little larger than this one, I think I remember some sort of play house. We may want to wait until we see it before we make any plans." 

"What else do you remember about the house?" 

Mycroft frowned, looking up. "I remember it being taller." 

Greg laughed. "Do you remember it having furniture?" 

"Of course, though I have no idea if any is still here. If we are very lucky, there will be no need to transfer your dismal excuse for a sofa to our new home." 

Greg grinned, and felt something settle in his stomach at the words. "Oi," he said softly. "Don't insult my sofa." 

Mycroft took a step to Greg, and stood facing him, so close that Greg could feel his chest rise and fall. "It is a deplorable sofa," he said under his breath, leaning in close. "And you will be well rid of it." 

Mycroft's lips pressed against Greg's, soft and warm in the cold October air. Greg stretched up, his hands still pressed in his pockets, and opened his mouth under Mycroft's, to let his tongue brush against his lips, still closed. It was electric; not a shock but a pleasant current of heat that ran straight from his lips to his cock, and his stomach twisted in a not-quite-forgotten way. 

Greg started to hope there was at least _some_ kind of furniture inside. He was too old to think bare floor was much of an option. 

Mycroft moved back, just enough to break the kiss, and the two men stood quietly, breathing the same air back and forth, listening to the sound of the traffic on the other side of the wall. 

"Inside," said Mycroft, his voice low and husky, and Greg nodded. Mycroft took his hand, and Greg felt the key drop into his palm. 

He stepped away to look at it. He half thought it should have been a large, iron-wrought, ornamental old-fashioned key, but it was just a plain, flat bit of metal. 

"Mummy had the locks changed," explained Mycroft, his voice slowly going back to normal. "This opens the front door; there's another key for the rear, and a third for the gates. I have all the copies." 

"She didn't keep one?" 

"Not that she'll admit," said Mycroft. 

Greg unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. Mycroft was only a few paces behind him. 

The front hall was mostly empty and poorly lit, even with every bulb in perfect working order. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and near the door was a small table with a mirror above it. The air smelled of lemon and pine, and the hardwood floors shone. 

"It's clean, at least," said Greg, looking around. Mycroft stood nearby, doing the same. 

"Dark," he said. 

"Very," agreed Greg. "Are we sure we're not in a horror movie? There isn't going to be a murderer lurking in the wardrobe, is there?" 

"That would be the other Holmes brother," said Mycroft, and he stepped further into the hall. "As far as I know, the only people who died in this house did so of old age." 

"That's a comfort," said Greg. "We'll want to replace the lighting." 

Mycroft looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “We?” 

“Our house, isn’t it?” asked Greg, plunging on. 

“So it is.” Mycroft smiled. “Improved lighting, then. Perhaps removal of the panels?” 

“They might not be so bad if we could see,” said Greg, running his fingers along them. “Do you think they’d look all right if we restained them a lighter shade?” 

“I should be taking notes,” said Mycroft, amused. “If we have plans for every room in the house.” 

Greg grinned. For some reason, he liked the sound of plans. “Let’s see the rest, then.” 

Greg and Mycroft spent the next few hours walking through the house, examining the rooms and the furniture. The house was in reasonably good shape, considering its age and the fact that no one had lived in it for thirty years. The rooms were small, but not tight; the construction was sound, and though the ground level was somewhat dark and dim, the windows on the upper levels let in enough sunshine, even in the dim October afternoon, it would have been easy to read without any additional light source. 

Greg could tell that Mycroft liked the ground level's rooms best. They were dim, wood-paneled, and smaller than the rest. There was a sitting room in the front, attached to a somewhat larger room lined with bookshelves. Curtains still hung on the windows, making the room even darker, and when Greg went to pull them out of the way, the fabric disintegrated in his hand. 

“New curtains,” said Greg, brushing the fibers from his hands. 

"I remember this chair," said Mycroft with some surprise, and he rested his hand on the back of a wingchair near the fireplace. "It belonged to my great uncle. Humphrey. He sat in it every evening and smoked a pipe and told stories about the war." Mycroft paused. " _A_ war. Do you know, I'm not entirely sure which war it was. Humphrey would have been too old for the second world war, and too young for the first." 

"Spanish Civil War, maybe. You can use this room for an office." 

"I wouldn't want to bring work home." 

"Is that code for wouldn't be able to?" 

"In a manner of speaking." Mycroft peered into the fireplace. "Ah. Mummy had the chimneysweeps in. Should I light the fire?" 

"And get soot on your suit?" teased Greg, peering out the window. 

"I am quite accomplished when it comes to building a fire, Greg." 

"We still have the rest of the house to see," said Greg. "We shouldn't leave a fire unattended, and I don't particularly want it burning down around our ears before we've seen the entire place." 

"Later, then." 

The other half of the ground level was a kitchen and a dining room. The dining room was bare, wallpapered in something horrendous that might have fit in at 221B Baker Street, but stopped both Greg and Mycroft in their tracks. 

"Paint," said Greg, in a strangled sort of voice. 

"Yes," replied Mycroft firmly, and they both turned around and went to examine the kitchen, which was not much better. 

"I had no idea they made fridges in that color," said Greg, mystified. 

"Avocado green? I believe it was here when I was a child." 

"And with matching oven?" 

"Of course we will replace them." 

"I like the room, though. The tiling just needs some heavy cleaning, and it could be quite a cheerful place." 

"It looks much the same as what I remember," said Mycroft, pleased, and he ran his hand along the heavy oak worktable. 

Greg laughed. "You just like kitchens. You were the same way in your mother's house." 

"I suppose I do." 

"Can you cook?" 

"I seldom have opportunity or reason. Or anyone to cook for." 

"You can cook for me." 

Mycroft looked up from the table, and Greg felt his cheeks heat at the dark expression in his eyes. "Yes," said Mycroft. "I suppose I could. Can you cook?” 

“I do all right.” 

“You can be my sous, then.” 

Greg laughed. “We’ll swap.” 

“Is there food in the larder?" 

Greg had to shake himself to break free of Mycroft's gaze. He opened the fridge, still feeling his skin tingle, and closed it just as quickly again. 

"Let's look at the other rooms," he said quickly, and took Mycroft's hand to pull him out of the kitchen. Mycroft glanced back at the fridge and began to laugh. It took Greg a bit by surprise – he couldn’t remember hearing Mycroft laugh more than once or twice during their most unusual courtship. The sound reminded him of the kiss in the front garden, the way the heat had pooled in his stomach and settled in his cock, and Greg stopped in the hallway and pushed the other man against the wall, holding his shoulders. 

“Greg,” said Mycroft, the mirth still in his eyes, as well as a bit of surprise. 

Greg kissed him, catching the last bit of laughter in his mouth and rolling it over his tongue. The joy transferred, and Greg felt it swirl around him until he was happy enough to forget the horrible dining room wallpaper and the atrociously colored refrigerator. He pressed his body to Mycroft’s, felt the hardness forming to match his own, and he might have ignored the prospect that a hard floor had for his back, but Mycroft took him by the hand and kept on with the tour. 

All right, thought Greg. He could do with a little more anticipation. 

The next two levels were simpler – mostly bare rooms which might have been bedrooms at one time, or additional sitting rooms. One had a broken chair; another had a small, extremely ugly desk with drawers that stuck halfway open. Mycroft and Greg went through them quickly, noting the peeling wallpaper, the scratches on the floors, the questionable lighting, the chinked windows. 

The only room Greg did not see was on the second level, where the door was closed. Mycroft opened it, and just as quickly closed it again. 

"Mycroft?" 

"Later," said Mycroft, trying to hide the smile, and Greg shrugged and glanced up the last flight of stairs. "Attics, and likely to be the flotsam and jetsam of several generations of Holmeses. Do you want to look?" 

"Not today," said Greg. "Have to leave some surprises, don't we?" 

Greg went back down to the first level while Mycroft tapped the walls, checking for rot. There was a room on the first level lined with bookshelves, and Greg found himself lingering in it, looking out the window into the back garden, which did not have a fountain, but did have an herb garden of sorts, and space enough that he could imagine Mycroft as a small boy playing in it, while a toddler-sized Sherlock ran circles around him. 

"Did Sherlock ever come here?" asked Greg as Mycroft joined him. 

"When he was very small. I doubt he remembered it. My aunt died when I was ten; the house has been in disuse since." 

"I'm amazed it hasn't fallen to pieces." 

"I suspect Mummy has had something to do with that." 

Greg turned and leaned against the wall. "Why didn't either of you live here, then?" 

"Rather large for one person, I should think." 

"Large for two," said Greg dryly. "My flat could fit on just one floor with room to spare. And you didn't give the impression that yours was much larger. We'll rattle around in here, I think." 

"We don't have to live here," said Mycroft, carefully. 

Greg gave him a look, not entirely sure how to interpret Mycroft's words or tone. He sounded guarded in a way that Greg hadn't heard in some time - and it occurred to him that despite everything that had happened that morning, Mycroft still wasn't sure of him. 

That made sense. Greg wasn't sure of Mycroft, either. 

"I'm not saying that." 

"Do you - do you want to live here?" Mycroft didn't meet his eyes, and Greg pushed himself off the wall and went to touch his arm. 

"Yes," said Greg firmly. "That's what people do, isn't it? Get married, live together." 

"We have hardly had a conventional courtship." 

"Shut up," said Greg, and kissed him. 

Their arms went around each other, almost instinctively. Their lips, once having touched, opened and the kiss picked up where it had been left behind, in the bedroom in Sussex. Greg wound his fingers up Mycroft's neck to the baseline of his hair, his heart pounding in time, and he heard the soft sound in the back of Mycroft's throat and smiled when Mycroft's arms tightened around him. Neither of them were quite hard – but they weren’t soft either, and every kiss picked up where the last one had left off. 

"You want this," said Greg. 

"I want _you_." 

"Then stop pushing me away. You're not in charge." 

Mycroft rested his forehead against Greg's. "Neither are you. But - is this what you want? This house, this partnership, this...me?" 

"I do. I don't know why or how or when it happened, but yes. I do." 

They kissed again, hungry now, anxious and groping and desperate, and Greg felt Mycroft's surety in the way he brushed his hand against Greg's back, the way he pushed their coats to the floor, the way his trousers had begun to strain at his crotch. Mycroft pushed Greg up against the empty bookshelves, and stood, arms on either side of him, just looking at him, his mouth red and open, breathing heavily. 

"Not here," said Mycroft, and took Greg by the hand and pulled him from the room. Greg followed, his heart pounding as Mycroft pulled him up the stairs. It had been years since he’d been with another man, and the stakes now were higher than they’d been for any other first time. Mycroft’s grip on his hand was tight and warm, and Greg focused on the feel of his hand, because everything else was sensory overload. 

Mycroft stopped outside the closed door on the second level, and Greg tried to breathe. 

"Go in," said Mycroft, and he pushed the door open. 

The rest of the house was in tatters, but this room had clearly received attention recently. The walls were papered in delicate white with a silver-and-gold pattern, and heavy damask curtains covered the windows, pulled back with ties to let in the thin October sunshine through a gauzy film. There was a queen-sized bed against the far wall, bedclothes thick and inviting, and a thick blue rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, with a fire ready to light. 

Greg laughed, just a little. "Your mother." 

"Yes," said Mycroft. "I suppose she couldn't leave well enough alone." 

"Better than the bookshelves," said Greg wryly, and pulled Mycroft into the room. "It's a bit...bright. For a bedroom." 

"We can redecorate later." 

"Thank God you said that," sighed Greg with relief, and pulled Mycroft against him, and picked up exactly where they'd left off, pushing and pulling at each other's clothing. Greg didn’t dare stop to think, because if he did think, he'd remember that he was in the equivalent of a honeymoon suite, in an old house in St John's Wood, which had been given to the pair of them to keep. That there was a ring on his finger, given to him this morning by this man, who he only knew in fits and starts. And the craziest part of all was that for some reason, Greg knew he didn't want to go a single day without hearing his name on that man’s lips. 

"Mycroft," said Greg suddenly, and held Mycroft tighter when the man began to pull away. 

"Greg?" 

"Just—" Greg pushed him back to the bed and stood at Mycroft's knees, his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. "You didn't want this before." 

"I'm a traditional man," said Mycroft, and he lifted Greg’s hand to give it a kiss. 

Greg stilled. “Then you’ve never…” 

“Married someone? No,” said Mycroft, with a faint smile. He unbuttoned the cuffs on Greg’s shirt, and after pushing back the fabric, feathered kisses against the inside of Greg’s wrist. 

“Not what I meant,” said Greg, somewhat cross. 

“Are we having that discussion now? The answer is two other people, very long ago,” said Mycroft, continuing to push the fabric away, dropping kisses as more of Greg’s arm was revealed. “Never with anyone of any importance to me.” 

Greg took a deep breath. Ah. 

“Shite,” he said faintly. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You have more experience, of course.” 

“I was married for fifteen years, and I didn’t cheat,” said Greg quietly. 

Mycroft kissed his wrist. “I know you did not. I meant you have been with other men, no matter how long ago it was.” 

“Been a while.” 

“Still. Rather like riding a horse, I expect.” 

The chuckle escaped Greg before he could stop it. He cupped his hand around Mycroft’s neck and studied him for a moment. His lips were flushed from kissing, and his pupils were dilated so that he could barely see the brightness in his eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a real relationship with anyone.” 

“Correct.” 

“Wh—” The word was lost when Mycroft pulled Greg’s shirt from his trousers. “Mycroft. Why?” 

Mycroft didn’t meet Greg’s eyes; instead, he worked to unfasten Greg’s belt and trousers. “Why I never had a relationship? Or why I want one with you? Or, more to the point – why I waited for this, with you?” 

Greg’s trousers dropped to the floor, and Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his open mouth against the fabric, already straining against Greg’s nearly-hard cock. Greg sucked in a breath, and curled his fingers around the back of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft wrapped his arms around his waist, which was lucky, because Greg wasn’t sure his legs could hold him up. 

“God, yes. All of it,” gasped Greg, and Mycroft chuckled. 

“I never had a relationship before because it seemed…pointless. Unnecessary. Inconsequential.” Mycroft fell back against the mattress, pulling Greg over him, and moved his hands to either side of Greg’s head. “You are not inconsequential. And I waited for this, _because_ you are not inconsequential or pointless. I find you to be very much necessary, and thus, worth the wait.” 

Greg’s heart thudded. "Rather have the deep, deep peace, than the hurly-burly, is that it?" 

"Mrs Patrick Campbell. Exactly so," said Mycroft with a smile, and he pulled Greg down for a kiss. Greg toed off one shoe, which fell to the floor with a clatter, and Mycroft broke the kiss with a sigh. 

"Greg. There's time enough to remove your shoes properly." 

"Shut up, Mycroft," said Greg into Mycroft's neck. 

"I'm not toeing off _my_ shoes." 

Greg laughed against Mycroft's skin, and rolled to the side. "All right, then. You have exactly one minute." He sat up and pulled his other shoe off, followed by the socks, barely aware of Mycroft next to him, doing the same, though at a much slower pace. Greg stopped to watch, and grinned to see Mycroft unlacing his shoes, carefully pulling them from his feet and setting them next to the bed, quite proper. 

"You are _ridiculous_." 

"Am I?” asked Mycroft, and he leaned toward Greg, cupping the back of his head in his hand, and kissed him. Greg let himself be kissed, felt Mycroft's other hand on his cheek, fell backward against the bed as Mycroft pushed him over. All that was left of his clothing was his vest and his pants - Mycroft worked to remove these, never breaking the kiss, while Greg slipped his hand up Mycroft's vest, felt the hot skin on his back, the dip at his spine. 

Mycroft might not have been to bed very often, but he knew how to kiss. Greg half wondered who had taught him, but pushed the thought away, not really caring. It didn't matter; Mycroft was here now, and Greg worked at his vest, pulling it up until the skin of their stomachs rested against each other. He pushed against Mycroft, forcing the man to sit up, and followed him. He broke the kiss long enough to pull Mycroft's vest over his head, and threw it on the floor. His own vest quickly followed, and then he leaned forward and feathered small kisses along Mycroft's chest, pushing the man back to the pillows, and working his mouth down until he reached the waistband on his pants. 

He paused, only for a moment, but it was enough for Mycroft to make a small sound, almost a whimper, half a moan, and Greg heard him say his name. 

The balance shifted. 

"S'alright," said Greg, and pulled down the pants. Mycroft's cock was already half hard, and when Greg's fingers brushed against it, it jerked against him as Mycroft sucked in a breath. 

"Gregory," said Mycroft again, this time more strained. Greg pushed himself up to look at Mycroft, and was surprised to see the strain in the man's face, his hands fisted around the pillows. 

"I don't want to push you," said Greg, and his heart thudded. "Whatever you want." 

"I..." Mycroft swallowed. "Please." 

It was as much a request as it was relinquishment of control; Greg leaned forward and kissed Mycroft's mouth, running his hand under his neck. "Tell me to stop and I will," Greg said to him. "All right?" 

Mycroft nodded, and reached up for another kiss. Greg gave it to him, and then worked his way back down, shoving the boxer briefs out of the way entirely, fitting himself in between Mycroft's legs, and slowly stroked Mycroft's cock with the back of his fingers, once and then twice, before covering it completely with his hand and feeling the warmth against his palm. 

Mycroft let out a sigh, and Greg lowered his nose to the crook of Mycroft's cock, feeling the soft skin slide over the muscle beneath. Mycroft's sigh deepened into a moan, and Greg wetted his lips with his tongue, and began to work in the kisses, from the base to the tip, leaving small trails of wet prints along the way. This he remembered, this slow loving, and Greg found the long-forgotten rhythm he'd once enjoyed, in the years before his marriage. It wasn't a rush of memories - it was a bit more like opening a series of presents, one box leading into the next, and Greg tried not to think too hard about what was coming, because he knew when he got there, he'd remember how to do that, too. 

When he reached the tip, he kissed again, opening his mouth to let it slip inside, and heard the strangled cry from Mycroft above him somewhere. 

Mycroft's cry brought him back to Earth. It wasn't just a cock under his lips, it was _Mycroft_ , and Greg tried to slip all of Mycroft into his mouth, but couldn't. Mycroft's hips pushed up, and it was too much, too quickly, and Greg pulled away, coughing and choking. 

"Greg, I - are you?" Mycroft was propped up on his elbows, eyes wide and worried. 

"My brain remembers, my throat doesn't," said Greg, and looked up to give Mycroft a sheepish grin. "I'm all right. Lie back down." 

But Mycroft didn't, and Greg decided if he needed to see to believe, then that was all right. He went back down to Mycroft's cock, and backtracked just a bit, the wet mouth-closed kisses up his skin to the tip. Mycroft's breathing grew ragged now with anticipation, knowing what was coming, and when Greg covered the tip of his cock with his mouth, Mycroft stopped breathing and stilled beneath him. Greg opened his hand against Mycroft's hips, and when he sucked gently, Mycroft let out another strangled cry and fell back on the mattress. Greg chuckled, and took Mycroft in a little bit deeper. 

"Careful," said Mycroft. 

"I know what I'm doing." 

"No, you don't." 

"Shut up," said Greg around Mycroft's cock, and sucked him in again. He chuckled, and Mycroft let out deep moan. "Like that?" 

Mycroft answered, and it wasn't in any language Greg recognized. Greg decided to call that approval, and kept going. It was some minutes before he realized that Mycroft was calling his name. 

Greg pulled off of Mycroft, and looked up the length of his chest. "Yes?" 

"I need - I want – please, Greg—" 

Mycroft's face contorted; Greg thought he knew what Mycroft was trying to say. 

”How far do you want me to go?” asked Greg, his mind racing ahead. 

Mycroft swallowed. “Inside.” 

Greg’s heart pounded. He glanced around the room and spotted the drawer in the side-table. It was the most likely spot - would have to be, because Greg realized with a flash that even though he'd anticipated _something_ , he hadn't thought it through enough to purchase supplies. He rested his hand on Mycroft's cock, and moved up the bed to reach the drawer. 

Sure enough, there was a tube and several foil packets, as well as a plain, off-white piece of card with a heart drawn in red. 

The mattress shifted beneath him as Mycroft rolled. “Greg?” he asked, his hand falling to rest on Greg’s back, and his chin on Greg’s shoulder. Greg heard Mycroft begin to chuckle. 

“Tell me you put that there,” said Greg finally. 

“It would be a lie.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“Me, of course it was me.” 

“Thank God,” said Greg, and turned to kiss Mycroft. He caught Mycroft’s hand and held it in between their chests, pressing gently against Mycroft’s lips with his own. He could feel their hearts beating on either side of their hands, and his cock throbbed just a little, but it was nice, like this. Just holding each other, in the moment, their hearts beating hard, and knowing what was coming— 

Greg realized that he’d never have this moment again. No matter what happened in the next five minutes, five hours, five years, five decades, though he supposed neither of them had that long, unless they were very lucky. But this moment, the two of them sharing quietly fevered kisses, just starting out – it would be gone before he’d had a chance to enjoy it. 

He wanted to enjoy it. 

“Don’t…stop…” said Mycroft in between kisses. 

“Not yet,” whispered Greg, and held on to the moment, until Mycroft nipped at his lower lip, playfully and then with a bit more force. 

It was enough; Greg pushed him back to the mattress. He grabbed the tube and one of the foil packets, and shut the drawer with a snap, before working his way back down the bed. He dropped the foil packet to the side - he could find it again in a moment if it was needed - and popped open the top of the lube. 

Back again, his mouth against Mycroft’s cock, only a few minutes of sucking and kissing in turn before Mycroft’s legs relaxed around him. This was a good moment too; Greg brushed his fingers against the skin behind Mycroft’s balls, soft circles brushing against the fine hairs. He could hear Mycroft’s breath quickening, and he squeezed the lube out on his fingers, rubbed them together to spread the moisture on his skin. 

One finger stroked gently against Mycroft’s hole, and Greg slowly began to kiss up Mycroft’s chest again, until he reached Mycroft’s neck, and when he started to suck on the skin above his collarbone, he gently and steadily pressed his finger inside. 

Mycroft caught his breath, but though Greg stopped moving his hand, he didn’t let up the suction on his neck. After a moment, he pressed further in, and Mycroft’s breath grew more ragged. It was hot, and tight, but Greg couldn’t decide if it was tighter than he’d expected or not. Greg worked his mouth up Mycroft’s neck as he moved his finger in slow circles, gradually opening Mycroft bit by bit, and when he reached Mycroft’s chin, he slipped the second finger in. The lube was slick between his fingers, pressed tight together, but Greg didn’t let up on the rhythm. Mycroft’s breaths were shallow, his eyes were closed, his cheeks were flushed. Greg felt the surge of something in his chest. It was deeper than lust, it was fuller than desire, and when Mycroft opened his eyes, staring right at him, Greg recognized it. 

Love. 

He _loved_ Mycroft Holmes. 

When the _hell_ had that happened? 

“Christ,” whispered Greg. 

“Not quite,” said Mycroft, his voice strangled, and Greg felt the surge again, and let out a laughing gasp. When Greg finally closed his mouth over Mycroft’s open lips, he crooked his fingers just so, and caught Mycroft’s startled cry between his teeth. 

Mycroft’s hand was firm on the back of his neck; his kisses grew insistent and increasingly hungry. Greg was able to slip the third finger in, but in trying to hold himself up on one elbow, one hand buried below, he couldn’t keep up with Mycroft’s desperation. His arm gave way; Mycroft pushed him onto his back, and Greg’s fingers slipped out. Mycroft rolled on top of Greg, straddling him, and Greg tried to reach up to Mycroft, but found his arms held to the mattress instead. 

“Mycroft,” said Greg, but Mycroft pressed his mouth to Greg’s neck and sucked the skin under his ear. 

“My turn,” he said into Greg’s skin, and worked his way down Greg’s chest, still holding his arms down. The wet marks left by his mouth were cold on Greg’s skin; Greg closed his eyes and arched his back, and wished Mycroft would just hurry the bloody hell up and get to his cock, hot and hard and heavy, a thousand miles too far from Mycroft’s mouth. He groaned, and heard Mycroft chuckle, low, before working back up his chest again. 

“Damn you,” gasped Greg, and Mycroft paused, somewhere near Greg’s sternum, and Greg heard the familiar rustle and tear of the foil packet. 

“Wait,” said Greg, coming to himself, suddenly not altogether certain that Mycroft didn’t quite remember how it worked. “I’m not—” 

And then it was Mycroft’s hands, and the cool chill of the condom on his cock, fingers rolling it down. Mycroft shifted against him, over him; Greg fumbled for the lube and managed to get a generous amount out and onto himself. 

Mycroft straddled him, and Greg held his cock steady as he slowly lowered down, a hiss of breath while Greg gasped. _Heat_ , and tight, and oh _God_ , and Greg stared at the sight of his cock disappearing into Mycroft’s body, unable to tear his eyes away. When he could finally let go, he wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s cock instead, and Mycroft let out a soft cry as Greg rubbed his thumb over the tip, still damp with saliva. 

“I—” 

“Shh,” said Greg, and somehow pushed himself up on one arm. He let go of Mycroft’s cock and pulled Mycroft’s head closer, to drop a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft’s lips were shaking, eager and distracted at the same time, but Greg couldn’t hold the odd position for long, and fell back to the mattress as Mycroft lowered himself fully onto his cock. Greg pushed his head back onto the mattress, arching his back, and Mycroft fell forward, his hands coming down hard on the mattress on either side of Greg. He was shaking and his eyes were half open. 

“Hey,” said Greg, and Mycroft opened his eyes. “All right?” 

“Yes,” said Mycroft, distant. 

Greg pushed up again, and caught Mycroft’s mouth in a kiss. Mycroft responded eagerly. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft, hooked his leg around his, and without breaking the kiss, rolled them to the side, and over. Mycroft, once on his back, pulled away and stared up at Greg, eyes wide. 

“My turn,” said Greg, and slowly pulled out of Mycroft, not quite all the way, but enough that Mycroft’s eyes fluttered closed. 

“Don’t—” 

“I won’t.” It was impossible to go slowly, Greg didn’t want to go slowly. He wanted to pound into Mycroft, he wanted to make the man scream and moan beneath him, he wanted to fuck him until they both exploded – but instead he pulled out, so slowly it ached, until only the first two inches were still in Mycroft. 

Then he started to push in again, and Mycroft let out a quick, sharp breath. Greg stopped, and pulled out again, and there was a noise from the back of Mycroft’s throat, not quite a whimper or a moan, and Greg pushed in again. 

“Mycroft—” 

“No,” said Mycroft, and his arm flailed to a side, until he landed on a pillow, which he dragged down. “I – not quite—” 

Greg pulled out, and Mycroft lifted his hips so that Greg could shove the pillow under them. As soon as Mycroft was settled, he pushed back inside, as far as he could, and lowered himself over Mycroft, settling his hands on either side of Mycroft’s head. 

“Greg—” 

“I know,” said Greg, and kissed him. Mycroft was no longer shaking, and he responded eagerly, if a little more subdued, and as Greg pulled away, he slid out, just enough to hit Mycroft’s prostate, and hear the little gasp in the back of Mycroft’s throat. 

“Better?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Mycroft, strained. His hands found Greg’s hips, and his fingers dug into the skin. “Come back. Greg, come _back_.” 

Greg pushed in again, a little bit faster this time, and was rewarded with another noise from the back of Mycroft’s throat, deeper now, and after that he couldn’t stop. Over and over, the flush growing darker on Mycroft’s cheeks with every thrust. Greg couldn’t think, couldn’t process, wasn’t aware of anything except the way that his cock felt, moving through the tight, wet hotness of Mycroft. Mycroft’s cock was hard between their bellies, the skin rubbing against Greg with every thrust, and Greg put his weight on one side, reached in between them to grasp it, roll his thumb over the tip, and Mycroft threw his head back and let out a choking cry, clearly trying to keep it bottled in. 

“No,” said Greg, his voice so rough he almost sounded angry. “If you’re going to come, _shout_.” 

And Mycroft did, shouting it out as he spilled over Greg’s hand, and Greg forgot about Mycroft’s prostate and pushed into Mycroft to the hilt, once-twice-three times before he fell over Mycroft as he came, pushed his mouth and nose onto Mycroft’s neck and shouted his own release into Mycroft’s skin. 

They held onto each other, small shudders as they tried to breathe and float back down to Earth, and Mycroft’s hands found Greg’s arms, his fingers wrapped around his biceps. 

“Greg.” 

Greg didn’t want to talk just yet. He also didn’t want to move, but he pushed himself off Mycroft, barely remembering to hold onto the condom as he slipped out. There were tissues on the side-table; he wrapped the condom in two and moved to stand. His legs were shaking hard enough that he fell back onto the mattress, and behind him, Mycroft chuckled. 

“I’ll go,” said Mycroft, and Greg fell back against the pillows. He closed his eyes against the sunlight streaming suddenly in through the windows, the sound of someone’s motorbike zooming down the lane, a child howling on the pavement. London reasserting itself, real life slipping its way into the bedroom. Instead, Greg thought about the splash of water in the en suite, the clink and clatter of Mycroft opening cupboards. 

Mycroft. Greg moved an arm over his eyes to further block the light, and thought about the man in the other room, the ring on his finger, the watch that was still on his wrist. Love. Greg’s heart kept beating in his chest, slowing a little now from the earlier exertions, exactly as if nothing had changed since that morning. 

Perhaps nothing had. Greg wondered when that had happened. When had his life become bound up in the utterly impossible life of Mycroft Holmes? Was it when he’d had the glimpse of Mycroft’s childhood in a lonely, bare little room? Or when he saw his initials engraved below those of Mycroft’s parents? Or had it happened long before that, when Mycroft sat so quietly in the back seat of a black car, and asked Greg to keep an eye on his wayward brother, newly clean but a long-time thorn in Greg’s side? 

“You’re thinking,” said Mycroft, and the mattress shifted under his weight. Greg moved his arm and opened his eyes, and saw the faint worry across Mycroft’s face before he schooled his features into the familiar even tones, although the flush was still in his cheeks, and his lips were red from kisses. 

Greg smiled. “I might not be a Holmes, but I do know how.” 

Mycroft had a dampened flannel in his hand; he used gentle strokes to clean Greg off, and Greg grinned, rather liking Mycroft tending to him. 

“I never said you didn’t. But I was rather hoping you would have been unable to hold onto a thought at the moment.” 

Greg chuckled. “In that case, I should be insulted. You’re still thinking, too.” 

“Well,” said Mycroft, all practicality, even as he carefully wiped Greg’s cock with the flannel, “I imagine we’ll improve over time.” 

Greg laughed, and Mycroft folded the flannel neatly and put it on the side table. He lay next to Greg on the bed, and Greg rolled to face him, their fingers dancing around each other on the mattress. 

“I was trying to figure out when I fell in love with you,” said Greg, knowing that Mycroft wanted to know, and Mycroft’s fingers stilled for just a moment. 

“Oh,” breathed Mycroft, and Greg glanced up at him. “That is…quite unsporting of you.” 

Greg frowned. “Loving you isn’t sporting?” 

“No. Putting me at a disadvantage when you already control the situation is not sporting. You should have saved the revelation for a more suitable opportunity.” 

Greg shook his head. “Someday, I’m going to find the person who taught you to view relationships as business opportunities and I’m going to kick their arse to Cornwall and back.” 

“Aren’t they?” 

“No,” said Greg firmly, and he took hold of Mycroft’s fingers. “How on earth is _this_ a business opportunity? And don’t make me regret asking.” 

“We have entered into a legal partnership, in which everything that was mine and everything that was yours is now ours. We own property together, we make financial and medical decisions for each other and with each other. I cannot be persuaded to testify against you or you against me.” 

Greg let out a slow breath. “All right. True, every bit. But you didn’t want this with me because you thought I might be compelled to testify against you, or because I’ve got a frankly appalling bank account, or because you trust my lack of medical expertise. And I know for a fact you don’t particularly care for ownership of my sofa.” 

“Half ownership of your sofa means I have half a say in its disposal.” 

“Mycroft, you did _not_ marry me over a sofa.” 

“No, I married you over a Turkish carpet in the Registry Office.” 

Mycroft had an excellent poker face, and Greg stared at him, waiting for him to crack something akin to a smile. 

“So that just leaves the question,” said Greg finally. “Why _did_ you marry me, if not for the sofa?” 

Mycroft closed his eyes, briefly. “Don’t you know?” 

“Not in words.” 

“Caring is not an advantage,” said Mycroft, but it sounded less like an answer and more like a mantra. 

“In business? I wouldn’t imagine so. But this isn’t business, I told you.” Greg frowned. “Mycroft. You…did realize this wasn’t business?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Mycroft so quickly that Greg had barely finished speaking. “I know that.” 

“All right,” said Greg, and Mycroft let out a breath, relaxing again. “You didn’t realize? That I love you?” 

Mycroft shook his head, eyes still closed. “I think you only just realized it yourself.” 

“I did,” said Greg, and he leaned forward and kissed Mycroft’s forehead, and cheeks, and finally his mouth. Mycroft remained still until the last, and then wrapped his arms around him. They rolled, just enough that Greg was on his back, and Mycroft’s kisses grew more intense and forceful, until Greg just let him continue, running his hands along Mycroft’s back while Mycroft brushed kisses along Greg’s cheeks and ears and neck and collarbone. They weren’t overly sexual but no less loving for it, and Greg let his hands drift up to Mycroft’s hair, thinning but silky and soft. Mycroft made a soft noise, and Greg chuckled. 

“Like that, do you?” 

“Yes,” said Mycroft, and concentrated on Greg’s shoulder. 

“I’ll remember that,” said Greg lazily, and closed his eyes. “I think it was the day you didn’t want anything.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I think that’s when I fell for you. When you just came for the pleasure of my company.” 

“Greg,” said Mycroft, chiding. “You know I had an ulterior motive. It was not just about your company.” 

“Of course it was. Because the ulterior motive _was_ my company. At least, the ulterior motive was _this_ sort of company.” 

Greg moved his hips, just enough to prove the point, and Mycroft chuckled. 

“You are very sure.” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“No.” 

Greg laughed softly, and enjoyed the feel of Mycroft moving over him. “It was a good day. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. I trust you did not want excessive platitudes, floral arrangements, extraneous company or the customary accoutrements.” 

“Not particularly. Thank you for inviting John, though. I would have been sorry had he not been there.” 

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “It felt wrong not to invite him. Inviting John was the closest I could come to having Sherlock there.” 

“Yeah,” said Greg, and he held Mycroft just a bit tighter. “I wish he'd been there for you.” 

“Folly to wish for what cannot occur.” 

“We should have waited.” 

Mycroft went still above him. “I'm sorry?” 

Greg shifted, stretching his legs and arms, so completely content and comfortable, he ignored the warning bells in the back of his mind. “For Sherlock. We should have waited for him to finish whatever damn fool thing he's doing so that he could be here.” 

Mycroft fell to Greg’s side, saying nothing, and after a moment, Greg opened his eyes and looked at him, wondering. “Mycroft?” 

Mycroft’s face was a blank canvas, but his eyes were dark and deep, staring at Greg as though he didn’t recognize him. “Greg. What are you talking about?” 

And it hit Greg then, so perfectly clear and obvious, laid out in front of him so that it might have been in the morning newspaper. The world went still; even the traffic outside seemed to have stopped in its tracks. 

Greg pushed against Mycroft, and sat up. “You - oh, Christ. You don't know about Sherlock?” 

Mycroft sat up slowly across from him. Greg recognized the look on his face, the way he held himself still, the utter control in every motion, as though he directed his body from afar and wasn’t actually in it himself. “Greg. Sherlock is dead.” 

Greg shook his head. “Mycroft. No, he's not. Sherlock is alive.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Four months earlier_

Sally called Greg’s name three times before he heard her. He’d been staring out the window at absolutely nothing, just the air between his windows and the building across the way, unable to even blink for fear he’d miss something passing between. 

“What is it, Sally?” asked Greg finally. 

“Have you seen Jenkins?” Sally asked. “He hasn’t shown up in three days, isn’t answering his phone – last anyone saw he was with you right before the Fr—” 

Greg looked up at Sally, sharp. Sally’s face was stricken, a bit like she’d been caught out, and she took a breath and tried again. 

“The day Holmes jumped, Jenkins was with you, right up to when you left for Bart’s. He stayed the rest of the day, filed his report, went home, and no one’s seen him since.” 

Greg turned the chair away from the window and got to his feet. “Are you telling me a member of CID – no, worse, a member of my _team_ \- has been missing for four days and you’re only bringing this to my attention _now_?” 

Sally’s face was hard and stoic. “You’ve been on leave, sir. You weren’t here to tell.” 

“Christ,” swore Greg, and got to his feet to brush past her. “Tell me someone’s at least gone to his flat.” 

“Empty, sir,” said Sally, not moving from his office, and Greg turned to look at her. “Cleared out.” 

Greg set his jaw. “We’re going.” 

“We’ve looked at it—” 

“ _We’re. Going._ ” 

Sally was right. The flat was empty, warm and stuffy in the way of flats that hadn’t been lived in. Greg stood in the center of the room and turned slowly, wondering what had happened to Brad Jenkins, why he’d left so suddenly. He hadn’t been with NSY that long – only reassigned from York three weeks before. Greg tried to remember if he’d mentioned any family or friends who might have been a reason to leave so quickly, and couldn’t think of any. 

Greg paused. He couldn’t think of anything about Brad Jenkins, actually. Not a single solitary personal fact, except that he hadn’t grown up in York. Didn’t have the right accent, and when questioned, Jenkins had only smiled and said, “Ah, there’s a story,” and then never elaborated. Always deflected. 

Greg looked around the flat again, and noticed. Looked. _Observed_. 

“Shit,” he said. 

“Sir?” asked Sally. 

“Call York,” said Greg. “I don’t think Brad Jenkins exists.” 

“Sir?” asked Sally again. 

Greg walked to the built-in bookshelves, and ran a finger along the wood. He lifted it up for Sally to see. 

“Dust,” he said grimly. “A month’s worth. Brad Jenkins didn’t leave here four days ago, because Brad Jenkins never lived here in the first place.” 

* 

_Three months earlier_

Greg had been waiting in Molly’s lab for fifteen minutes by the time she returned. He’d killed time by looking through the various microscopes at unidentifiable blobs of things that surely would not have been identifiable to anyone but Molly herself. 

“Oh!” Molly entered the lab, saw him, and stopped dead in her tracks. “I – hello. Did you – is there—?” 

Greg wondered why Molly was so flustered to see him – it wasn’t as though his appearance was completely out of character – but Molly had been strange since Sherlock’s death, holding herself at arm’s length, unable to look at any of them for any length of time. “No new bodies. Just wanted a word.” 

Molly steeled herself and stared at him, waiting. 

Greg noted the tension, and plunged in. “Molly, did you—” 

“No!” Molly shrieked her reply, dropped the files she carried, and held her breath, shaking. 

Greg slowly finished his question. “Ah – did you file the report on the Colchester murders?” 

“Oh,” said Molly, eyes wide, and she dropped to the floor to gather the papers. “Yes. Two days ago. You didn’t get it?” 

“No.” Greg went over to help – some of the papers had floated under the nearby table, so Greg reached under to fish them out. He hadn’t intended to look at them – but the name caught his eye. 

_Moriarty._

Greg kept gathering the papers, but kept that one on the top of the pile, scanning it quickly as he worked, and picked up a few more phrases. _Gunshot. Clearly suicide. Time of death approximately 7.45am. Dr Molly Hooper, attending._

A glance at the other papers showed additional reports on Moriarty’s remains, a list of contents of his pockets, and even stranger – copies of everything. 

Greg held tightly to the papers for a moment, thought of the day in June and how one event tumbled after the other, and then handed the pile to Molly. “Is everything all right?” 

Molly took the papers from him, but didn’t look up to meet Greg’s eyes. “Blunt force trauma to the lower abdomen, resulting in a ruptured intestinal track. Death would have been slow and somewhat painful.” 

It took Greg too long to realize that Molly was still talking about Colchester. “Molly,” said Greg, and caught Molly by the arm. “I didn’t – the post-mortem on Moriarty. Are _you_ all right?” 

Molly’s mouth fell open, just a little, and her eyes were wide and frightened. Greg had always heard the expression “deer in the headlights”, but he’d never thought he would see it on Molly’s face, or think that he was the headlight, and she was the deer. “I’m fine,” said Molly. “Just fine.” 

She shook off his hand and kept gathering the papers. A lock of hair fell out of her ponytail, in front of her face, and Greg, inexplicably, was reminded of Sherlock. 

“It shouldn’t have been you.” 

“It had to be me,” said Molly firmly. 

“Why?” asked Greg. 

Molly didn’t answer; she shuffled the papers together and put them back in the file folder. 

“Molly. Have you talked to anyone?” asked Greg. “Since Sherlock died.” 

“Don’t need to,” said Molly briskly, putting the last paper in the pile, and she stood up quickly. “Told you. I’m fine.” 

“You signed his death certificate and the post-mortem.” 

“I do that all the time,” snapped Molly, and she closed her eyes and sighed, clutching the file to her chest. “Please. I’m fine. Very busy. I’ll resubmit the Colchester file for you.” 

“Right,” said Greg slowly, “thanks.” 

* 

_Two months earlier_

It was a small notice in the paper, not worth noting, barely worth reading. Greg almost didn’t even see it, except Donovan had been studiously pretending to read the newspaper at her desk in an effort not to meet anyone’s eyes – it was something to do with Anderson and a request for transfer and Greg didn’t much want to think about it too hard because he was still trying to figure out what was wrong with Molly. After twenty minutes of staring at the headline, Greg gave up and read the article. 

_…crime syndicate taken down…drug and prostitution….third such syndicate to have imploded in the last two months…sources are not certain why the syndicates are unraveling, but they appear to be connected to a figure known only as M…_

“Moriarty,” said Greg, and Donovan flicked the newspaper down to look at him. 

“Sir?” 

“Nothing,” said Greg, and went to his computer. 

Half an hour later, when Donovan gave up on trying to look inconspicuous and came to tell him her reassignment had gone through, Greg had run every search on every system to which he had access. 

Richard Brook was in none of them. 

“I think it’s best, sir,” said Donovan. Greg looked up from the computer, and focused on Sally. Really looked at her, for the first time in months. And for the first time since Sherlock’s death, he thought he saw something akin to relief in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry to lose you,” he said, and almost meant it. 

Sally shook her head. “No, you’re not. Not now, anyway.” 

“You followed your gut,” Greg told her. “You were wrong, but we’re all wrong sometimes.” 

“Did anyone ever die because you were wrong?” demanded Sally. Greg couldn’t answer, and Sally shrugged, almost resigned. “I can’t stay. Everyone knows I hated him. Everyone looks at me like I was the one that pushed him off the rooftop. And maybe I was. He was destroyed and I helped destroy him.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Does it matter what’s true, if everyone believes the lie?” asked Sally, bitter. She stood up. “Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to work with you. I’m sorry it ended this way.” 

Greg took her hand. “You didn’t destroy him. And what you did – you didn’t do alone.” 

Sally shrugged and offered a half smile. “One man saying it isn’t going to help. But…thanks. I’m glad the one man is you.” 

Greg watched Sally carry the box of her things to the lift, and let the thoughts swirl in his head. 

_Does it matter what’s true, if everyone believes the lie?_

_Brad Jenkins never left because Brad Jenkins was never here._

_Clear suicide, death at approximately 7.45am._

_Don’t need to talk to anyone, I’m fine. I sign death certificates all the time._

_Third crime syndicate imploded in the last two months…_

Greg spun his chair back around to the window, and watched the space between the buildings. 

_7.45am._

No. Something wasn’t right… 

_7.45am._

Greg glanced at the clock on his wall. Just a quick glance, but he couldn’t help but imagine the rush of something falling outside the window. He knew it was imagination, but even so…. Every time he looked away from a window, he’d imagine something falling past, just out of sight. 

Sherlock had jumped at 7.55am. 

Moriarty had killed himself ten minutes before. 

If Moriarty was dead… _why had Sherlock jumped?_

* 

_One month earlier_

The sitting room was nothing particularly intriguing, though it felt more like a room Greg would have expected in his own home, growing up. There was a telly in the corner, a few sofas that might have done with new upholstery, a basket full of knitting, on top of which was a half-finished deep blue scarf, marking the nearby chair as Violet Holmes's refuge. 

It was the color that stayed in Greg’s memory, long after he’d been distracted by the photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft as children. That deep blue, which he’d seen knotted under a familiar chin for years before he saw it blood-stained and crumpled on a table in Molly’s lab. John had taken the scarf home with him. Mycroft had let him, hadn’t even argued with him. No one had the heart to tell John to leave the scarf behind. 

Then there was the closed door, at the end of the hallway, and when Greg and Mycroft had left the quiet white refuge of Mycroft’s childhood room, Greg had heard it, barely – the soft shhh of someone brushing up against a door, shifting himself. The whisper of fabric and wood. 

Mycroft was too far along the hallway to hear – at least, Greg watched him continue to walk without blinking or even pausing. Greg stopped in the hallway, half thinking he’d imagined the sound. It was long enough for Mycroft to turn to him, eyes still soft. 

“Coming?” 

“Yes,” said Greg, and followed, as if all the bits and pieces in his head weren’t already snapping into place. 

That night, long after Mycroft had returned home (a kiss, lingering and sweet, in the vestibule outside his door), Greg went online. It didn’t take too many searches before he found the template, and it took even less time to print it out. 

He scribbled the message on the bottom, in blue, so that it could not possibly be missed. 

Paper in one hand, and hastily located tape in the other, he went outside to the signpost across the street. He taped the paper to the sign, and then scurried back inside before any of his neighbors saw him defacing public property. 

Once in his flat, he peered out the window and saw the sheet of paper, oddly small but shining brightly in the streetlight. A familiar profile, and the words I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES, with his own added message at the bottom. 

Greg lowered the blinds, and went to bed. 

The sign was gone in the morning. 

* 

_Here and Now_

“There were things that didn’t add up. Little ones, the kind that stick in the back of your head and then they don’t really make sense until you have the one key. 

“Moriarty killed himself ten minutes before Sherlock jumped. That wasn’t the first odd thing, but it was the one that made the least sense. If Moriarty was dead, why would Sherlock have jumped? He wouldn’t have had a reason – unless there was something Moriarty had over him. 

“Then there was the new constable on my team – a bloke named Jenkins, transferred from York a few weeks before Sherlock jumped. Nice guy, keen, clever, kept close to me. We thought he was just eager to learn a few tricks, but the day Sherlock jumped, he disappeared and we’ve never heard from him since. His flat hadn’t been lived in, and when we started working backward, we learned that York hadn’t heard of him either. Caused a lot of problems there, but he hadn’t done any harm that we could tell. But who impersonates a police officer, and then just up and leaves? And on the same day that Sherlock jumped? 

“All the news reports, crime syndicates imploding, assassins turning up dead. And most of them? Connected to Moriarty in some way. 

“Did you know Molly signed Sherlock’s post mortem? She signed Moriarty’s as well. Not really done, to sign for someone you knew on a personal level, and Molly had relationships with both of them, even if they were one-sided. She’s defensive about it. I suppose anyone would be, and maybe she got something out of signing Moriarty’s papers, but Sherlock’s? I don’t know.” 

Mycroft hadn’t moved, except to swing his legs off the bed, and stare out the window. His voice was quiet, hoarse, and tired, all at once. 

“None of that proves my brother is alive.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Greg. “But there’s one thing your brother taught me in the years I worked with him, and it’s not so much about the difference between seeing and observing, or how to remember everything I’ve learned and be able to recall it at a moment’s notice. It’s that sometimes, we mere mortals have to follow our gut and look at the pieces that don’t quite fit. There’s a lot of pieces that don’t fit about Sherlock’s death.” 

Mycroft shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws, Detective Inspector. You _want_ him to be alive, so you’re looking for what isn’t there.” 

Greg’s blood ran just a bit cold with Mycroft’s retreat to formality, and he felt his hackles rise up to meet it. “Sherlock wasn’t one to lie down and take a beating. He wouldn’t give up a fight. And suicide? That’s the biggest show of throwing in the towel that I know of. He might have claimed boredom half the time but in the middle of a mystery? Never. You’re going to honestly sit there and tell me that your brother was _bored_ when he jumped off St Bart’s? I heard the tapes of his phone call with John. He wasn’t bored. He was _tortured_.” 

“Exactly so,” snapped Mycroft, turning to Greg. His eyes were narrowed and Greg saw the fire in them. “ _Tortured_ , Detective Inspector. Sherlock didn’t jump because he was bored – he jumped because he had no other options available.” 

“Your brother always had other options. I can’t believe he didn’t cultivate at least one of them.” 

“He’s dead, isn’t that proof he did not?” 

“Funny, I heard the same about Irene Adler.” 

Mycroft left the bed and leaned over the window. The thinning sunlight curved around his naked back, giving half of him a golden glow, while the other half remained cloaked in shadow. The freckles on his skin were faded from years of being denied exposure to sunlight; Greg thought all of Mycroft was faded and lessened. Mycroft, his head bowed, spoke so low that Greg had to struggle to hear. 

“I saw his body. Don’t you think I know my own brother?” 

“You do,” said Greg softly. “So do I. That’s why I’m sure he’s out there somewhere. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft. Why can’t you?” 

“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” repeated Mycroft, but his voice broke in saying it, and Greg wanted to wrap his arms around him, to hold him tight and wait until Mycroft could believe it. He didn’t move. 

Greg took a breath. “Your mother is knitting him a new blue scarf. And he was in the house the day we had lunch. I heard him moving in his room. I left him a message that night, outside my flat. It was gone in the morning.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter what’s true, if everyone believes the lie,” said Greg, thinking of Sally, of the articles in the press, of a black-granite slab in a cemetery. Greg waited. 

It was a long wait, while Mycroft breathed. Greg didn’t dare move. He went over everything in his head, and even the pieces that didn’t make sense screamed that he was right. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had jumped because Moriarty had forced his hand. Molly had helped to falsify his death records. The false constable had disappeared the day Sherlock had jumped. There was something in the shadows, destroying Moriarty’s legacy. Violet Holmes was knitting a new scarf in Sherlock’s preferred color, and if Sherlock was in his bedroom that day, he probably already knew about Greg and Mycroft’s relationship. 

Greg let out a breath, slow. _Relationship_. He hoped to hell he hadn’t just destroyed it, before it even had a chance to really begin. 

“I need to go,” said Mycroft suddenly, and he began to gather his clothing. Greg watched him get dressed, and said nothing, though he wasn’t sure if it was because there was nothing to say, or because he didn’t dare to voice what he most wanted to know. Mycroft didn’t look at him, averted his eyes whenever there was a chance of their eyes meeting. Mycroft waited until he was buttoning the cuffs on his sleeves before he broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to say something?” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“Something along the lines of, please stay. Don’t go away angry. I’m sorry I—” Mycroft stilled for a moment, and then continued working at the button. 

Greg reached out, and Mycroft hesitated, then offered Greg his wrist. Greg carefully did up the button, taking as long as he possibly could. 

“I can’t force you to stay,” said Greg as he worked the button through the fabric. “I don’t think I should. I think there’s something you need to do, and if that’s true, you should do it. And I won’t tell you to not go away angry, because I don’t think you _are_ angry.” 

Mycroft huffed, quietly. 

“You’ve got every right to be angry,” said Greg. “With me, with Sherlock, with your mother. And for the record, I _am_ sorry. I thought you knew.” 

“Why would I know?” asked Mycroft, bitterly. 

The cuff was buttoned; Greg couldn’t avoid him any longer. He looked up at Mycroft. “He’s your brother.” 

Mycroft glanced at him then, and his eyes were cold and hard. “Exactly,” he said, and pulled his arm away. Without another word, he left the room. 

Greg listened to Mycroft’s footsteps go down the stairs, and then the distant sound of the front door opening and closing. It didn’t slam; Mycroft Holmes didn’t slam doors. Greg stayed in the bed, listening, waiting, and very carefully not thinking, until his muscles began to cramp and the goose bumps on his skin formed goose bumps of their own. 

“Bollocks,” he said softly to the empty room, and got out of the bed. He pulled the covers over the mattress, straightened them, and then began to dress. 

His footsteps echoed in the empty house as he descended to the ground floor. Peeling wallpaper, a crack in the hardwood floor, threadbare carpet that had begun to roll with age, a window that didn’t quite close properly. 

Greg reached the ground floor, and stood in the entryway, uncertain where to go. 

He fingered the keys in his pocket, and heard the soft clink as one of them hit the band of metal on his finger. 

“Right,” he said aloud, and the word echoed in the empty foyer. _Rightrightrightrightright._

Greg buttoned his coat, and left the house, locking the door behind him. He dropped the key in his pocket, and felt it bounce against his body as he walked away, not sure what he was walking away from, and less sure where he was heading. 

* 

Mycroft Holmes stood outside the home his mother had always euphemistically called “The Cottage”. It was far from it, of course, and Mycroft knew there was another name on the registrar, but he had never heard anyone call it anything else. 

Except for Sherlock. Sherlock had always called it, derisively, _Home_. A word which ought to have evoked warm memories, the smell of bread baking, the sound of a fire crackling. In Sherlock’s bitter tones, it was anything but. 

There were seven years between Mycroft and Sherlock. Mycroft’s childhood had been worlds apart from Sherlock’s. 

Four hours. It had been four hours since Greg’s revelation, which hadn’t been so much Truth as it was Hope based on a series of facts and suppositions made out of desperation. Mycroft supposed that Greg felt Sherlock’s loss as a double-edged sword: the loss of the friendship, yes, but also the loss of the mind itself, the assistance Sherlock gave Greg in his line of work. John had thrown himself into doctoring to forget Sherlock. Mrs Hudson was apparently throwing herself into voluntary work. Mummy had taken up knitting. Greg, however, had no such outlet where he could forget Sherlock for a little while. 

Mycroft supposed he had thrown himself into Greg. It had very nearly worked, too. 

Four hours. Mycroft had spent them doing what he did best: observing, asking questions, deducing the answers, _understanding_. And everything he saw and questioned and reasoned led him back here, to The Cottage, to Mummy, and to the one question only one man could properly answer. 

Mycroft opened the door and stepped inside. He could hear the music from Mummy’s first-floor sitting room, the soft murmur of voices. He closed the door, not bothering to smother the click, and took his time as he hung up his hat and coat, set his umbrella in the stand by the door, and removed the mud-crusted shoes. There were house slippers nearby, and Mycroft sat on the bench to slip them on, wincing a little despite the cushion – but the hours at the office, and another hour in the car had already pushed him past the worst of the discomfort left from that afternoon’s…activities. 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, and rested his head against the wall. He felt a bit like he was seven years old again, home from school, with Mummy waiting in her sitting room for the daily report, chatting away with one of the ladies from the Women’s Institute about a function or fundraiser or some such project. Some things never changed; here he was, returned rather late, and Mummy was upstairs, chatting away, waiting for him to appear. Mycroft wondered who was visiting in the middle of a rainstorm – not a lover, certainly, Mycroft knew she was between them at the moment. There were no live-in help employed at the moment, and what neighbor would stop in on such an evening? 

He wondered, briefly, if it was Sherlock, and Mycroft left the entryway and made his way up the stairs. 

Violet Holmes was alone in the sitting room, working at her knitting. Mycroft slumped against the doorframe, the sudden hope he’d felt in the foyer extinguished. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to find Sherlock waiting for him, sitting across from Mummy, sulking or talking or being brilliant, anything, really, as long as he was alive. 

“Mycroft?” 

Mycroft opened his eyes. Violet had lowered her knitting to her lap, and looked at him with a frown on her face. She was alone; he wondered who he’d heard talking earlier. 

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Sit. There’s tea.” 

Mycroft sat in the armchair on the other side of the fire, and folded his hands on his lap. He stared at the pot of tea and kept his breathing even. Violet resumed her knitting, but kept a cautious eye on her elder son. 

“Well?” asked Violet finally. 

“Where is Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. 

Violet didn’t pause in her knitting. She raised her eyebrow, just so, as if she were merely surprised at the timing of the question. 

“You don’t know?” 

“I have been…” Mycroft looked for the word. “Preoccupied.” 

“And yet you are here,” said Violet mildly. “When you ought to still be…preoccupied.” 

“Mummy.” 

“Mycroft,” chided Violet, and frowned at her knitting. “You’ve made me drop a stitch.” 

“He’s alive.” 

“Of course he’s alive,” said Violet, working backwards on her knitting. “I’m a terrible actress, you’ve always known that. Anyone who knows me couldn’t possibly deduce otherwise.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well,” said Violet. “You were, as you say, preoccupied.” 

“ _Mummy_.” 

“Oh, Mycroft,” sighed Violet, and she dropped her knitting to her lap. “Really. It’s your honeymoon. Why are you here? Did you and Gregory have a domestic? Darling, just go back to him and tell him you’re sorry and perhaps give him a necklace or something. It’s what your father would have done.” 

“And it worked so well on you,” said Mycroft. 

“No, of course not, but then, I’m far more sensible than your Gregory.” 

“ _Gregory_ is the one who figured out that Sherlock is alive,” snapped Mycroft, leaning forward in his chair. “So please don’t disparage his intelligence. Not to me.” 

“Ah, good,” said Violet, eyeing her son. “You _do_ care for him. We weren’t entirely certain if it was truly love or a finger to Sherlock’s grave. Well, _supposed_ grave, of course. He’s not actually buried there.” 

Mycroft couldn’t remain sitting, not with the sudden infusion of anger in his blood. He stood and walked to the fireplace, and then paced the room back to the wall of photographs. His eyes fell on the snapshot from the garden, the one which had fascinated Greg the month before. Himself, thirty years younger, staring resolutely into the camera, while Sherlock leaped from the wall behind, a blurred motion of energy. 

Leaped, or fell. One or the other. 

“He told you,” said Mycroft, staring at the photograph, wishing he could remember the day it was taken. 

“Of course he told me. He needed funding.” 

“He _told_ you.” 

“Mycroft.” Violet sounded almost amused. “You can’t honestly be upset that he didn’t come to you?” 

Mycroft focused on the blur in the photograph. “I would have helped him. I would have done anything he asked.” 

“From guilt, yes. I think perhaps he didn’t want to absolve you just yet.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Then John did tell him about Moriarty. I was never sure.” 

Violet’s knitting needles clicked behind him. Knit, knit, purl. “I thought I had fostered a great deal more sibling love between you, that you should not sell each other out for a stick of sugar.” 

“Moriarty was hardly a stick of sugar.” 

“To you, perhaps,” said Violet. “He was rather more like arsenic to Sherlock.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes and did not wince. 

“Sit and drink the tea, Mycroft. I dare say you’re wet through, the rain’s been steady for hours.” 

“I’ve been inside.” 

“Yes, and not with your Gregory, I’m sure. Drink the tea anyway.” 

“Mummy,” sighed Mycroft. “Do stop being obvious. I already saw three cups next to the pot, and two of them are used. I suppose Sherlock is hiding nearby?” 

“Go and look for him, then,” said Violet casually, and Mycroft turned back to the fire. His mother continued her knitting, eyes focused on the soft grey yarn. 

Mycroft sat back down in his chair, and reached for the tea. 

“A grey scarf,” he said, and poured out a cup for himself, and then for his mother. 

“Thank you, darling,” said Violet. “I thought for Gregory. I’m getting quite good now, I hardly drop any stitches anymore. I thought red, but perhaps he would rather be unobtrusive at crime scenes.” 

“I’m sure he will wear whatever color you choose for him.” 

“And you?” 

“I would appreciate anything you make for me, of course.” 

Violet made an amused noise. “In that case, I shall save my efforts for someone else. John, perhaps. Or your new nephews.” 

“Mummy.” 

Violet sighed dramatically and dropped her knitting to her lap again. “You _are_ like a dog worrying a bone, aren’t you? Which upsets you more, Mycroft? That your brother is alive and did not tell you? Or that your Gregory deduced it first?” 

“Currently, that he is in this house and using you to shield himself from me.” 

“You could go look for him. I rather suspect he will not run from you, if you do.” 

“I have no wish to be garroted the moment I step from this room.” 

“I trust he would not do so fatally,” said Violet, needles clicking. 

“I don’t,” said Mycroft flatly. 

Violet’s needles stopped clicking, and Mycroft stared into the fire and let the silence fill the room. 

“I wish,” said Violet suddenly, and stopped. “Never mind. Silly notion. I can no sooner change either of you than I could turn the heel of a sock. He meant to talk to you the day of the luncheon, you know.” 

Mycroft closed his eyes. 

“Did he,” he said softly. 

“Yes. While Gregory’s sister and I were in the stables, and the boys played in the woods. I knew he wanted to tell both of you. I think he’s lonely.” 

Mycroft let out a soft laugh. 

“Sherlock adores loneliness. He pushes people away like others throw out the daily newspaper.” 

“Not true,” said Violet sharply. “Not any more, at least. He drinks up companionship like water. Provided it’s the right sort of companionship. He’s quite particular. And this quest he’s set for himself – it’s the worst sort of thing, where he must cut himself off from everyone he loves and holds dearest. He’s wasting away.” 

Mycroft’s eyes sprang open and he sat up in his chair. “He’s not—” 

“No, of course not, good heavens. No. He’s far too focused. But he’s not eating or sleeping properly, he’s had a run of the flu, and I think he looks nearly as bad as when he _was_ using.” 

There was a bang from the other side of the wall, and Violet frowned. “I don’t care if he _can_ hear me,” she said, raising her voice. “I’ve said as much to his face and I’ll say it again to his brother! Particularly if he’s going to be stroppy and stay in the next room!” 

Silence from the other side of the wall; Mycroft could hear the sulk through the wallpaper. 

“If he wanted to talk to me the day of the luncheon, then he can very well come out and talk to me now,” said Mycroft testily. 

“I haven’t any idea why he doesn’t,” said Violet, resuming her knitting. The needles clacked together. “I don’t know why he didn’t then. Perhaps you do.” 

Mycroft thought back to the day of the luncheon, when it was only he and Greg in the house, and felt his cheeks go hot. “Ah,” he said, and Violet let out a small sigh. 

“I think you rather took him by surprise,” she said. 

“Be that as it may,” said Mycroft shortly. He stood. “I only came to confirm what we suspected. As this task is now accomplished, I’ll take my leave. Thank you for the tea, Mummy.” 

“Mycroft,” said Violet, her eyes suddenly concerned. “Please—” She reached for him, and Mycroft took her hand, but couldn’t look at her. “I wanted him to tell you. I’ve asked him every day.” 

Mycroft nodded, and squeezed her hand. 

“Don’t be angry with your Detective Inspector.” 

“I—” Mycroft faltered. “Angry with _Greg_? Is there something else he’s keeping from me?” 

“Nothing of which I’m aware. But he saw quite clearly what you did not, and I know you very well.” 

Mycroft nearly answered, and then did not. He leaned over and kissed Violet on the cheek, and with a final squeeze of her hand, left the room. 

The hallway was silent. Most of the bedroom doors were ajar, except for Sherlock’s, which was shut tight. Mycroft walked to his brother’s door, careful to make sure his footsteps were heard, and stood at the door, staring at it. 

He imagined Sherlock on the other side – but not Sherlock as he had been six months before. Sherlock as a stroppy teenager, as a gangly eleven-year-old, as a smart-aleck schoolboy, as an irrepressible toddler. Sherlock at the age of six, socks falling down, hair askew, staring out the window as Mycroft left for Eton. Mycroft remembered the mix of betrayal and envy in his younger brother’s eyes, and lifted his hand to rest it against the polished wood of his bedroom door. 

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, and then paused. All the words he never said to Sherlock’s headstone tumbled in the back of his throat. “I still believe that caring is not an advantage. You left me at an absolute disadvantage, because in losing you, I nearly lost the one person I gained through you. I cannot imagine the courage it took to do what you felt needing doing, to protect those you love. I only know the courage it took for me to keep him pales in comparison.” 

Silence behind the door; Mycroft lowered his hand, imagined not the child Sherlock, but the grown man, standing on the other side, listening. 

“For this and many other reasons, I am the lesser man,” said Mycroft quietly, and walked away, down the steps, to the foyer, where he once again put on his shoes, his coat, his hat, took his umbrella, and went out into the rain.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg swore as the putty knife slipped for the third time and ripped the paper. He threw the length of wallpaper in his hands to the floor, and picked at the small scrap still hanging on the wall with his fingernails until he managed to get enough to pull again. Slowly, he started to pull the damp wallpaper away from the wall again, working the putty knife underneath to help free it. 

It was nearing midnight, and Greg was tired. The day had been too long, too much, too busy, too quiet, with too much company and too much solitary time in which to brood. He needed to sleep, and it was the farthest thing from his mind. 

Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing, anyway, stripping wallpaper from a room in a house he apparently owned with a man who had up and left ten minutes after some frankly fantastic sex, possibly never to return. 

Well, it was something to do, anyway, and Greg didn’t particularly want to sit in his flat or return to work before he bloody well had to, so wallpaper it was. 

Returning to his flat that afternoon, even for just long enough to shower and change, had been something like stepping back into time. The man who woke up in the Spartan flat that morning wasn’t the same as the man who returned to it later that day. Greg wondered if Mycroft had changed his DNA, or just the way he’d seen his own life. He’d thrown an extra change of clothes into a bag, called for a taxi, and then carried the bag, a box containing food supplies and a radio, and two floor lamps down to the street to wait, not particularly willing to stay in the bare rooms a moment more than absolutely necessary. 

He refused to admit that part of his desire to get back to the house was the thought of what would happen if Mycroft returned, and didn’t find him there. It was almost as if both Mycroft and the house would disappear forever, and even though the thought was ridiculous, Greg didn’t want to take the chance. 

Every light in the dining room was on, including the floor lamps he’d brought from home. The radio was in the center of the room, blaring something loud and obnoxious, because it was easier to concentrate on the wallpaper if he couldn’t think properly. The last thing Greg wanted to do was think properly. 

The wallpaper didn’t pull particularly easily away from the wall, but as long as Greg worked slowly, and used plenty of the solution he’d been recommended at the DIY store, it came off in large chunks, which was at least more satisfying than small strips. Of course, no sooner had he peeled off one layer, but another layer appeared – almost as bad as the first, if not quite as dark. Considering the age of the house, Greg supposed he should be grateful there were only two layers of wallpaper; the Holmes family apparently wasn’t much into change. 

And there it was, metaphors aplenty for just about every aspect of the day he could imagine. Reluctance to change, peeling back layers of lies to discover truth, moving slowly to reach a desired outcome. Not that their courtship had been anything resembling slow. Greg pulled the wallpaper away from the wall in one large sheath, and let it drop to the ground at his feet. Half the room done, half to go. 

And then…Greg didn’t know what was next, metaphorically or realistically. For himself, sleep, probably, it was well past midnight, not that Greg much wanted to think about where he’d be sleeping that night. 

For the room – well, that was trickier. He’d need to fill in any holes left by nails, and then sand down the walls to make sure they were smooth and even. That alone could take all day, and only then would he be able to start with the primer, before finally applying color. Not that Greg had any idea what color to choose. He’d walked past the paint samples at the store, and even took two or three, but it didn’t seem right to choose anything, without Mycroft. 

Greg didn’t know what he’d do, if he got that far and Mycroft wasn’t home. Greg decided not to think about it too hard. 

The music was loud enough that Greg didn’t hear the door close; it was only when he turned to pick up the spray bottle to wet the next bit of wallpaper that he saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Greg’s hand gripped the spray bottle, and for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming. 

“Mycroft,” he said, unable to think of anything else, and when Mycroft’s gaze turned from Greg to the wall, Greg felt the relief flood through him. 

“What are you doing?” asked Mycroft. 

“Obvious, I thought,” said Greg. “I’m stripping the wallpaper.” 

“I can see that, Greg,” said Mycroft, and stepped over the curls of discarded wallpaper to turn off the radio. The silence was sudden enough to make Greg’s head hurt. “I meant why are you doing it at all?” 

Greg’s head pounded; it might have been the silence, or something biological, to do with the way his heart was pumping blood through his body. It was likely both, but Greg wasn’t impressed. “I thought we agreed the wallpaper had to go. So I’m taking it out.” 

“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.” 

“Well, that’s fair,” countered Greg. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.” 

“Of course I was coming back,” said Mycroft, managing to sound insulted that Greg even questioned it. “It’s my house.” 

“Good. Great. Bloody fantastic,” said Greg, and he turned back to the wall and began to spray. “Then I’ll just keep stripping the wallpaper from _your_ house.” 

“ _Our_ house.” 

Greg didn’t answer. 

“You’ve been working on the wallpaper for a while.” 

“All night,” said Greg, testily. 

Mycroft turned away and examined the wall where the exposed wallpaper was still waiting to be removed. “The room’s been redecorated. The older paper is quite nice. I suspect we could find a similar pattern and use that if you’d rather not paint—” 

“Mycroft,” groaned Greg, and he rubbed his face. “Stop talking about the bloody wallpaper.” 

“You were right. Sherlock is alive.” 

Greg set down the spray bottle and hung his head. The pounding in his head was lessened, but he still felt somewhat sick. “Shite,” he said finally. “It’s one thing to think it, it’s another to hear it confirmed.” 

“I very much understand,” said Mycroft dryly. 

Greg snorted. “I’m not sure how to react to this.” 

“Glad that he’s alive?” suggested Mycroft. “Glad that your deductions were correct? Or—” 

“Pissed off as all hell that he’s been lying to us for four months,” said Greg, and stood up. He turned to face Mycroft. “Did you see him?” 

“No,” said Mycroft softly. “He didn’t want to see me.” 

“You actually _found_ the bloody bastard?” Greg frowned. “Where—?” 

“The Cottage. Mummy has been helping him.” 

“Shite,” said Greg again. He glanced at the wallpaper and then shrugged. “I need a beer for this conversation.” 

Greg went into the kitchen; he heard Mycroft follow him. The pizza he’d ordered for his dinner was still in its cardboard box on the counter, half eaten, and Greg could see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, staring at it disdainfully. The idea of Mycroft Holmes standing in the same hemisphere as a box of cold delivery pizza made Greg smile. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, and then thought again. He put the beer back, walked over to the box he’d brought with him from the flat, and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers which he had no doubt were completely wrong for drinking scotch. If Mycroft could stand to be in the same room as cold delivery pizza, Greg could meet him halfway. 

“You too,” he said firmly, and set it all down on the large oak table. “And don’t turn your nose up at the label, it’s all I had.” 

“I’m amazed you had it at all,” said Mycroft. “The glasses, however—” 

“Are perfectly capable of holding alcohol long enough to transfer it from the bottle to our mouths,” Greg said, pouring. “You can educate me about the proper protocol of drinking scotch later. Right now, I want you to tell me what happened with Sherlock.” 

“There isn’t much to tell,” admitted Mycroft, and he sat at the table and held the glass between his hands. “You were correct. Your missing team member was a man named Ricardo Garcia Alegria, and he was working for James Moriarty until his death two months ago in Varna, Bulgaria. I wouldn’t feel too badly; he was wanted as a prime suspect in multiple murders by Interpol and the Argentinean police forces.” 

Greg thought of the bright-eyed kid who had followed him around for days on end, and tried to imagine him as a cold-blooded murderer. It didn’t quite compute, except in an odd way, it did. “Shite,” he said, and drained his glass of scotch, before beginning to cough. 

“You’re meant to sip it,” said Mycroft. 

“Moriarty?” 

“The connecting thread, of course. It’s worth noting that repairs at 221 Baker Street halted the day after Sherlock’s death, due to the disappearance of the men that Mrs Hudson contracted. Incidentally, gentlemen matching their descriptions were found dead in Cornwall approximately one week later. In the company of a group of men known to be part of Moriarty’s circle.” 

Greg swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “He’s taking them down. He’s dismantling Moriarty’s web.” 

“Piece by piece, yes. By faking his death, he has ensured that they will never see him coming.” 

Greg closed his eyes and let out a breath. “And we’re supposed to just…let him?” 

“Apparently so, yes.” 

Greg let out a laugh and opened his eyes to reach for the bottle of scotch. “Christ. John’s going to kill him.” 

Mycroft smiled. “If Sherlock is very lucky, yes. I believe John will.” 

Greg waved the bottle of scotch at Mycroft. “You sound like the cat who caught the canary.” 

“Do I?” Mycroft smiled. It sent chills down Greg’s back. “I rather thought we could sell tickets. I dare say we’d have quite the bidding war.” 

“How’d he do it?” wondered Greg. “He jumped off a bloody _building_.” 

“That I could not determine. Though I do believe you were correct that Miss Hooper assisted to some degree. She might be able to shed some light on the subject.” 

Greg snorted. “Molly Hooper. I never would have thought—” He shook his head. “What do we do now? Does he know we know?” 

“Yes,” said Mycroft, and paused, still rolling the glass of scotch between his hands. “He knows that we know about him. And I should tell you that he knows about us.” 

“Ah,” said Greg, and thought about that. He watched Mycroft continue to play with the glass of scotch. “You’re meant to sip that, you know.” 

Mycroft allowed a small smile to slip through the mask. “He was in the house the day of the luncheon. He intended to reveal himself to both of us then.” 

Greg opened his mouth, about to ask why he hadn’t, and then remembered the day of the luncheon. 

“Ah,” he said, and Mycroft nodded. 

“Exactly.” 

“Is he all right with…us?” 

“He refused to come out to speak to me,” said Mycroft wryly. “So I rather think no. But my brother does tend to be possessive about his things, and I suspect he considered you to be very much one of his things. Alegria was killed with a single bullet through his forehead, close range.” 

Greg blinked, and drained his second glass of scotch, only to come back up coughing. Mycroft sighed. 

“Really, Greg.” 

“Did Sherlock think Alegria was going to – no, don’t answer that.” Greg rubbed his face. “ _Christ_.” 

“I agree with his assessment, if that helps.” 

“Not really, no,” said Greg, and reached for the scotch again. Mycroft watched him with eagle eyes. “I’ve just been informed that my _ownership_ has been transferred from one Holmes to the other. I’m allowed to get pissed on scotch, ta very much.” 

“I hardly classify my relationship with you as _owning_ you.” 

Greg rested his hand on the scotch bottle, thoughts swimming. “What do we do?” 

“We carry on,” said Mycroft. 

“No. What do you _want_ to do?” 

Mycroft paused. “Why were you stripping the wallpaper from the dining room?” 

“You’re dodging the question,” said Greg, and poured a third glass of scotch. The buzz had reached his head now, mixing with the swimming thoughts and the faint pounding from before, and Greg thought if he had one more dram, he’d probably fall off his chair. Considering he’d only half believed that Sherlock was still alive anyway, it wouldn’t be the most surprising thing to happen that day. 

“What I want depends on how you answer my question.” 

“What question?” 

“The _wallpaper_ , Gregory.” 

“You know,” said Greg, “you only call me Gregory when you’re mildly annoyed by me. When you’re _really_ annoyed, you call me Detective Inspector. It’s a tell. You should work on that.” 

“You’re inebriated.” 

“The word is _pissed_. And I’m well on the way, yes.” 

“Why?” 

Greg snorted. “You’re Mycroft Bloody Holmes. You tell me.” 

Mycroft reached for his hand and stopped Greg from drinking his third scotch. “Sherlock is alive. And therefore, you are questioning everything you have been told in the last four months.” 

Greg sighed, and let his head hit the table. “Blimey.” It was a tame word, but Greg didn’t have the energy for worse. Mycroft didn’t say anything; his hand was warm on Greg’s, comforting and solid, and Greg rolled his head on the table to look at him. “How do you do that? I didn’t even know—how? Is this something you Holmes brothers drank in as infants?” 

Mycroft’s eyebrow quirked; another tell, Greg knew, but his head refused to translate. “This afternoon, we both agreed to change the wallpaper in the dining room. When I returned, you were stripping the wallpaper. Perhaps impetuously, as you also said you weren’t certain I would return. Clearly, you are committed to this relationship. But upon hearing of my brother’s non-demise, you stopped, and have been drinking yourself into a stupor. An already shaky confidence has been shattered. You were about to drown your insecurities in beer, but instead chose the scotch, which you know is my preferred drink, and so I believe you are trying to reach out to me to determine whether or not I, like my brother, am capable of deception.” 

“Wrong,” said Greg, but it took a moment for him to determine why. “I know you’re capable of deception.” 

“Not with you,” said Mycroft. 

Greg snorted. 

“Not any more,” amended Mycroft. 

Greg looked at him, squinting a little to see past the blur of the alcohol. Mycroft looked…tired. Sad. And something else – not quite resignation or resolve, something not so confident. 

“That’s not why I went for the scotch,” said Greg finally. 

“No?” 

“Think you would have known that,” said Greg. “I’m not worried about you deceiving me.” 

“You should be.” 

Greg shook his head. “You can’t deceive me. I know you. I knew you long before today. You drinking that scotch – that has _nothing_ to do with you trying to deceive me.” 

Mycroft let go of the glass for a moment, and then slowly wrapped his fingers around it again. 

“I’m the one who was deceiving you,” said Greg. 

Mycroft glanced up. “You had no way of knowing that I was not part of the deception surrounding Sherlock’s supposed death. In fact, you believed I was.” 

“Not that,” said Greg. “I knew what you were doing. The opera tickets and turning up with a limo when it rained and the bloody emails where you never answered questions – you still haven’t apologized, you know.” 

“I fail to see the significance of this revelation.” 

Greg leaned forward. “Because. I knew what you were doing. With all of that. And I didn’t stop you.” 

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, just a little. 

“I could have,” said Greg, falling back to his seat. “But I didn’t.” 

“Why didn’t you?” asked Mycroft quietly. 

“Bloody hell, I don’t know. To call your bluff?” Greg snorted. “I was deceiving both of us. Made you think I was hard to get. Made me think I didn’t want you all along.” 

Greg caught the ghost of a smile on Mycroft’s mouth. Or it could have been the lighting in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure. 

“I didn’t think you were playing hard to get,” said Mycroft finally. “And I never thought you didn’t want me all along.” 

If he’d been sober, that might have made sense. As it was, Greg didn’t want to try to think straight about it. “So. Are you going to drink my sub-par scotch? Or not?” 

Mycroft’s smile was easier to see now. He drank the scotch. 

It was enough for Greg. 

Greg pushed up from the table, turning his hand so that he was able to grasp Mycroft’s. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.” 

“The wallpaper…” 

“Can wait until morning. I’d rather seduce you.” 

“Greg, I’m not sure you’ll be able to seduce me with two scotches and no food in your bloodstream.” 

“I’ve had pizza.” 

“Hours ago, and quite a bit of alcohol since.” 

“Then you can seduce me.” 

“I’d rather you remember the experience.” 

Greg tugged on Mycroft’s arm. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, stop being logical and take me to bed. This is supposed to be a bloody honeymoon, isn’t it?” 

Mycroft smiled, and let Greg lead him out of the kitchen, and to the bedroom upstairs. 

* 

It was the crash that woke Greg the next morning. Sunlight streamed in through the chinks in the heavy white curtains, and Mycroft snored beside him, spread out on his stomach. Greg blinked, wondered if he’d imagined the noise, and then heard it again. It was distinct and sharp, a bit like a chair being knocked over in an empty room, and Greg sat up, wondering if they’d remembered to lock the doors. 

Probably not. He swung his legs out of the bed, pulled on his jeans, and shrugged on a shirt as he slipped out the door and into the hall. 

The house was silent. Greg didn’t take any chances, and kept close to the wall, every inch of training (and a good deal of cop movies besides) coming back in a rush. Long before he reached the ground level, however, he was able to determine that the intruder was alone (one person walking), likely male (heavy footsteps), cheeky enough to feel comfortable, not to mention cold and/or thirsty (sound of the kettle), and in the kitchen (the only location with chairs). 

Greg had an idea of the intruder’s identity, but decided not to think too hard about it until he peered into the kitchen, at which point it became fairly obvious. 

“Do I have to call you brother now?” asked Sherlock Holmes, holding a cup of tea in his gloved hands, and wearing a weary and vaguely disgusted look on his face. He was nearly exactly as Greg remembered him – dark hair mussed and curly, impeccable suit, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The coat and scarf were draped over a chair at the table, and the idea that Sherlock was alive hit Greg directly in the stomach. 

“Sherlock,” said Greg, still on guard. “What are you doing in my kitchen?” 

“Oh, _your_ kitchen, is it?” 

“Seeing as that’s my mug and my kettle and _my tea_ , yes. The kitchen is mine. And you’re supposed to be dead. Answer the question.” 

“You knew I wasn’t.” 

“I strongly suspected,” said Greg, and stepped into the kitchen. There was a second mug near the kettle, with teabag already in it. Greg poured the water in and watched as the tea began to steep. 

“One doesn’t leave messages for people who aren’t dead.” 

“Tell it to John. He visits your grave every week or so, I hear tell.” 

Silence from Sherlock, and Greg felt sorry for having said anything. He sighed and leaned against the counter. 

“I don’t know where to start with you.” 

“It was dangerous, leaving that note. Anyone could have seen it.” 

“You saw it,” said Greg. “I figured no one else would know what it meant.” 

“Reckless,” said Sherlock. “Leaving public apologies for dead men. Not that the apology meant so much to you – you went and _married_ him after.” 

Greg stiffened, and turned to look at Sherlock. “You think I was apologizing for _Mycroft_?” 

Sherlock’s mouth opened, just barely, and then he clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. “Clearly not.” 

Greg let out a laugh. “You great git. I was apologizing for not believing in you before. I should never have—” He shook his head. “Never mind. Take the apology any way you like. Let yourself out when you’re done.” 

He grabbed his mug of tea, and turned to go back upstairs, but Sherlock surged forward a step and held Greg’s arm fast. 

“Lestrade,” he said, swallowed, and tried again. “ _Greg_.” 

Greg looked at Sherlock, calm. 

“You…” 

Greg held his breath. 

“I didn’t save you for him,” said Sherlock in a rush. 

Greg swallowed. “This better not be a confession of undying love.” 

“ _No_ ,” spat Sherlock. He let go of Greg’s arm and stormed to the opposite side of the kitchen. “God, no. What do you—” Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled. “I’m _trying_ —” 

“All right, calm down,” said Greg, and put down the mug of tea again. “You don’t love me. I’ll manage to get on.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, and Greg pulled the teabag out of the mug and dropped it onto a nearby saucer, already adorned with several teabags from Sherlock’s morning wait. 

“You needed to be saved,” said Sherlock finally. “I was in a position to do it.” 

“So I was convenient.” 

“Yes. _No_. You were…not disposable.” 

“Well, that’s something,” said Greg dryly, and then glanced back at Sherlock, who was leaning against the island, looking incredibly pained. And thin, and paler than usual, and his hair hung in ropey strands around his collar. There were dark circles under his eyes and the way he held himself was off, a bit like he was favoring one side over the other. 

“Hey,” said Greg suddenly. “Thanks.” 

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide. “Sorry?” 

“Thanks,” said Greg, and he went to Sherlock’s mug of tea and dumped the cold brew down the drain. He started to prepare a new cup. “Sit down, you look like hell.” 

Sherlock slowly walked to the table and sat down, eyes darting back to Greg as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. 

“My brother—” 

“Is still asleep. You can wait for him, but I’m not waking him up.” 

“Put him through his paces?” asked Sherlock innocently, and Greg could almost believe that Sherlock was back to his normal Sherlocky self. He grinned and slammed the milk on the table. 

“Oi,” said Greg idly. “I’m your brother-in-law now. I could kick your arse.” 

“Doubtful,” said Sherlock. 

The kettle clicked off, and Greg poured out the water and brought the mug to the table. He sat down on the hard wooden chair, and thought he’d managed to hide the wince. The evening’s activities, after the wallpaper, had been particularly…vigorous. 

Sherlock, however, wasn’t fooled. “A whole drawer full of supplies, and you can’t even sit down,” he said into his tea, and drank down a gulp. 

“Leave it,” said Greg shortly, and reached for the milk. “I’m not going to apologize for loving Mycroft. Let alone apologize to you for marrying him.” 

Sherlock looked up sharply. “So you do love him?” 

Greg, startled, thought about what he’d said. “Yeah,” he said, voice still firm and resolute. “I do. And don’t bother threatening to break my legs if I break his heart. We both know he’s scarier than you.” 

“Please,” scoffed Sherlock. “But I’d help him hide the body.” 

“Fair enough,” said Greg, and started to smile, thinking how ridiculous it was that his loving Mycroft Holmes kept sneaking up on him. He wondered if there would ever come a day that it didn’t take him by surprise. He half hoped not. 

“I don’t care,” said Sherlock suddenly. “What you do. What my brother does. I suppose it’s fitting that you married each other. You both tried to sell me out.” 

“We do have that in common, I suppose,” agreed Greg. “You know what else we have in common? Regret.” 

Sherlock ignored him, which Greg thought was well enough. Far too sentimental, anyway. Greg gulped a mouthful of tea, which thankfully wasn’t too hot anymore. 

“I have given it much consideration. I have decided that I might forgive you.” 

“Ta,” said Greg. He wondered if Sherlock meant for the marriage or the lack of faith, and then decided it didn’t matter. 

“Eventually.” 

“I look forward to it.” Greg spun the mug. “Are you going to tell John you’re alive?” 

Sherlock froze. “No,” he said at last. 

Greg frowned. “Is John in danger?” 

Sherlock shook his head and bit his lip. 

“Then he should know you’re alive.” 

“He can’t,” said Sherlock. “Not until I’m finished.” 

“You can’t leave him alone in the cold, Sherlock.” 

“He’s hardly alone; Mrs Hudson doesn’t know. Most of London doesn’t know.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“The only people who know now are family. Well, and Molly Hooper, but—” 

“Are you honestly going to sit at my kitchen table and tell me that John Watson isn’t family?” demanded Greg. “Because I won’t believe you.” 

“Not in the strictest sense of the word,” defended Sherlock. 

“Have you _seen_ John lately, Sherlock? He’s shattered. He’s a shell of the man he became when he came home from Afghanistan. The man you made him to be. He’s barely functioning.” 

“Oh, come now,” scoffed Sherlock. “He’s going to work and he’s doing the shopping and he’s even assisting you at crime scenes. He ignores his sister’s texts unless she’s falling over with drink, at which point he picks her back up again and throws out all her liquor and hopes to hell she’s fixed, but he knows she never will be. He has tea with Mrs Hudson every Sunday and they watch their ridiculous reality television same as they always did. John is _fine_.” 

Greg stared at Sherlock. “So you have seen him, then.” 

“Of course I have,” snapped Sherlock. “Did you think I’d really have ever left?” 

“He goes to the cemetery every week,” said Greg. 

Sherlock turned his face away, and did not answer. 

“Tell him,” said Greg softly. “If you’ve seen him, you know why you need to tell him.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because if he knew—” 

There was movement upstairs; Sherlock jumped, eyes instantly on the door. The way he held himself didn’t indicate nervousness about seeing his brother. 

“Sherlock,” Greg began, but Sherlock was already tightening the blue scarf around his neck, the frightened demeanor shed for something far more armored. 

“I should go.” 

“I can tell Mycroft—” 

“Whatever you like,” said Sherlock. “But don’t say anything to John. Please.” 

And then he was gone, as quietly as he’d come in, and Greg listened until he heard the footsteps on the stairs. Mycroft appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, and frowned at the kitchen table. 

“You made me tea?” 

“Not exactly,” said Greg, and had it been anyone but Mycroft, he would have had to decide whether or not to tell him about Sherlock. But Mycroft was Mycroft. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe for a moment, and then sprang to attention again. “He didn’t poison the tea, did he?” 

“He didn’t even touch it.” 

“Well, then,” said Mycroft. Mycroft crossed into the kitchen and over to the box with the food supplies. “I assume he’s gone.” 

Greg caught the undertone in Mycroft’s voice, the thin, sharp one that Mycroft had when he was trying to hide a hurt. “Mycroft—“ 

“He’ll find me when he’s ready,” said Mycroft. He turned, holding the sugar, and walked over to the table. “I assume he talked to you?” 

“I told him to tell John.” 

Mycroft set the sugar on the table, and didn’t look at Greg. “Ah.” 

“He didn’t like that idea.” 

“He wouldn’t,” said Mycroft carefully. 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Greg. “I don’t think he’s listening to me at the moment.” 

Mycroft nodded, and gripped the back of the chair where Sherlock had sat. Greg wondered if the chair was still warm from Sherlock. 

“Did he—“ Mycroft swallowed. “How did he look?” 

Greg imagined Sherlock still in the chair, sitting with Mycroft leaning over him. “He looked all right. Pale. Thinner. Not quite living rough, but not very well, either.” 

“Do you think…?” Mycroft couldn’t finish. “No,” 

said Greg firmly, knowing what he was thinking anyway. “I don’t. He was clean, Mycroft. Dead sober.” 

Mycroft let go of the chair and ran a hand over his face. He sighed with relief, and Greg drank his tea instead of going over to comfort him. It was what he wanted to do, but somehow, he knew that it wasn’t what Mycroft wanted just then. 

“All right then,” said Mycroft finally, his voice completely normal again, as if Greg had told him there would be chicken for supper. He sat in Sherlock’s chair, and began to spoon sugar into Sherlock’s tea. 

Greg watched Mycroft perch on the chair, somewhat gingerly. 

_A whole drawer full of supplies._

Greg couldn’t help it. He began to laugh. 

Mycroft looked up, eyebrows raised. 

“Am I missing something?” 

“Your mother,” said Greg, and couldn’t continue for a moment. He caught hold of himself, and tried again. “Didn’t pack the drawer next to our bed.” 

Mycroft waited patiently. 

Greg grinned at him, and drank some of his tea. 

“If my mother didn’t leave us the supplies,” said Mycroft slowly. “Who did?” 

Greg nodded at the mug of tea. 

Mycroft nearly dropped it. 

“Answers the question, at least,” said Greg. “Whether or not your brother approves of us.” He thought for a moment. “Well, at least whether or not he approves of last night’s activities.” 

“I should check the lube for laxatives,” said Mycroft dryly. 

“Not at the breakfast table,” said Greg, and leaned over to give Mycroft a kiss.


End file.
